


What Lies at the End

by QueenOfBithynia



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2019-08-20 03:53:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16548365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfBithynia/pseuds/QueenOfBithynia
Summary: *Emperor Albein Alm Rudolf is dead. Long live Emperor Albein Alm Rudolf II!The monstrous dragon gods are slain, killed for their corruption and decadence by the heroes of Valentia. Peace is restored. Under the wise leadership of Emperor Albein II and King Conrad VIII, all the peoples of Valentia will enter a new golden age of security and achievement.Glory to Rigel! Glory to humanity! Glory to Emperor Albein II!*---This story is an alternate take on the ending of Shadows of Valentia, intended to fix some of the bigger gripes I've got with the story. It diverges midway in act five, and will end up... somewhere similar, but very different. Characterizations are intended to be mostly intact, though with some more development in several cases. The story is going to move quickly, so expect something fast-paced.Tagged E for the violence, which will be graphic and frank. Comments and critique welcomed.





	1. The End

**Author's Note:**

> In awe at the size of this chapter. Absolute unit.

****  


Where she stood in the imperial vault, the dull lighting gave Celica a ghostly appearance. Her pale skin and dress seemed blue in color, her hair purple. Her eyes had a glow, beyond what Alm had always seen in them; rather a pinkish radiance he had come to know too well.

 

“Alm,” she said, her voice somehow untainted by Duma’s influence. “Please listen to reason. This is the only way.”

 

Alm’s marked hand twitched, and he squeezed it into a fist. In all of his life, nothing had angered him like seeing Celica do Jedah's bidding, blinded by her best intentions. He had a second-long fantasy of killing the damned priest and all of his cult, cutting them down one-by-one as they begged for mercy. Then he pushed it from his mind, and focused.

 

“Of course it isn’t! That dastard Jedah’s controlling you, Celica! Can’t you see? There’s always another way, one without gods. Come with me now and we can create it together.”

 

Celica looked him over, for a second, as if to appraise the idea, then looked down at his feet. “Alm, you… we….” She composed herself. “I can’t let you do this to Valentia. I don’t want to hurt you, or anyone else. Please - _please_ , _Alm -_ stand down.”

 

“Never. He’s gone mad with his power, Celica. Have you listened to a thing he’s said?”

 

“That doesn’t matter! Alm, without the gods we are lost. There’s nothing left. No life, no meaning, nothing to live for, let alone any way to live.”

 

“We’ll have each other. Not just _us_. Everyone, all of the people in the world.”

 

“Alm… you could never understand.” Celica said, shaking her head.

 

She drew her blade, and Alm knew the time for words had ended.

 

\---

 

The Kingsfang plunged through Celica’s stomach, its glowing light emerging out through her back. Alm shoved her off the blade and followed immediately with a second blow that tore into her upper chest, just under her collar. She stumbled back for a second, then regained her balance and stood still and confused for a second, as blood began to darken her dress. Then her sword clattered to the stone floor, and she followed it down.

 

The rush that came over Alm in combat began to subside, and the girl who lay choking on her blood became Celica again. The hint of satisfaction at winning yet another fight died, so quickly. She looked up at him from the ground, lying on her back in a pool of growing black liquid, and coughed something, breaking his stupor.

 

“Celica!” he screamed, dropping to the ground at her side and pulling her small form onto his lap, eliciting a faint, pained squeak from her. “H-hold on, Celica, just breathe, I’ll stop the bleeding, then get you out of--”

 

“No,” she coughed, spitting blood up onto his face, into his mouth. “No… there’s no use…”

 

“Shut up,” Alm hissed. He dropped his gauntlets, then tore her dress open down the collar, to get a better look at her wound. He had cut straight through the material, and then deep into her flesh and ribcage just above and right of her sternum. He stuffed his hand into the gash as best as he could to stop the bleeding, feeling broken bone and torn muscle coated in slippery blood, and Celica screamed out in pain, sharper than before, and sobbed, shaking and trying to push his hand away.

 

His resolve melted, and he knew he could do nothing. He covered her back up with what remained of her ruined dress, and pulled her into his chest, her soft body limp in his arms.

 

Upright, she could get a breath in, even as blood flowed out of her and ran down under Alm’s armor plates, into his clothes beneath.

 

“Celica, can-can I make you more comfortable? What can I--”

 

“Just this,” she mumbled, leaning her head on his breastplate.

 

“Please, Celica, you have to… you can’t let it end like this. This was never meant to happen, it’s a mistake, it’s… I’m sorry, I--I always loved you. Please…”

 

She choked again, them whispered something.

 

“What was that?”

 

“I’m sorry...”

 

“Please, don’t, Celica, you’ve got nothing to--”

 

“I’m sorry I failed.”

 

Then she was gone, leaving Alm with her broken body and covered in cooling blood.

 

\---

 

Alm killed Duma, but didn’t remember it.

 

He did not kill Jedah, who, in the end, abandoned the War Father.

 

When he returned to the vault, Celica’s body was gone, leaving just a dark pool of cold blood drying into the floor.

 

\---

 

Emperor Albein Alm Rudolf II was crowned after a month of mourning for the war’s dead, alongside his brother king, Conrad VIII of Zofia. Together, they paid their respects to the hero Princess Anthiese, slain by one of the mad god Duma’s abominations.

 

They shared a coronation. Zofian knights handed the crown of Rigel to Alm; Rigelian generals mirrored the act for Conrad. Together, they promised a new era of peace, order, and just rule, working alongside one another for the good of all of Valentia.

 

Conrad took his progress south, to mend the wounds of a land ravaged by war.

 

Alm marched north to make it upon an old enemy.

 

\---

 

Alm’s demands were threefold, and simple.

 

Firstly, the Faithful were to acknowledge Duma as corrupted and then slain, and cease preaching in His name.

 

Secondly, they were to dismantle all shrines, icons, and idols of Duma, to the satisfaction of imperial inspectors, handing over all movable wealth to the Empire.

 

Finally, they were to disband unconditionally, destroy all remaining witches, and present all of their senior leadership to authorities at the capital to stand trial for high treason against the Rigelian Empire.

 

They complied to none.

 

In his first act as Emperor, Alm declared them rebels, and their lives and property forfeit. He could not deny the satisfaction in scrawling his loopy new signature, _Albein Alm Rudolf II,_ at the bottom of the writ of attainder.

 

\---

 

_Early Spring, 402 VC_

 

“Emperor Albein, sir. It would be wrong of me to doubt your military acumen, but I find this course of action… highly inadvisable.”

 

Alm, with General Magnus, fifteen knights, and a mage, walked up to the temple’s open entrance. Alm was armored, but left his helmet to hang off its breastplate strap, secured next to the Kingsfang on his swordbelt. The real fighting was already finished, the Rigelian army now clearing the remainder of the fortress and taking up positions surrounding the temple, which lay at the complex’s center, disconnected from the walls.They had spent a month mining the outermost of three curtain walls to collapse, and then in one day had stormed through it and the remaining two, bringing the revolt of the Faithful to a bloody and decisive end. But Alm hadn’t yet fought, and felt he had lost enough men for the day.

 

“It’s just ‘Alm’, Magnus. And I know what I’m doing.”

 

“ _Alm_ ,” Magnus said, pronouncing the name like a word not to be said in polite company, “your safety is paramount. The men do not doubt your strength, and you’ve no reason to risk yourself unnecessarily.”

 

Alm chuckled. “You don’t have to tiptoe around it. If I’m being an idiot, tell me.”

 

“The army despises the Faithful. They would love the opportunity to finish them off,” Magnus offered, trying another line of reasoning.

 

“Well, so do I. And besides, if we get killed, they get their chance. Let’s do this.”

 

\---

 

It was spring in Rigel, but that had little bearing on the weather, and as soon as Alm’s punitive campaign against the Faith began, it was beset by freezing weather, howling winds, and sleet that melted into one’s clothes and froze to the bone. Alm had never been much bothered by the cold before, but he had thought he would freeze to death even in the relative luxury of his emperor’s tent.

 

To the Rigelian army, such weather was a mere fact of life, and after two months and the sacking of three of the Faith’s fortress-temples, it became one to Alm. But even with his acclimatization, the interior of the Faith’s seat had a chill that Alm had no frame of reference for. Even Magnus gave an involuntary shiver. Alm briefly considered ‘offering’ to carry one of the torches, before thinking better of it, despite his envy for Sir Emma, who carried the precious fire nearest to him. The halls were dim, illuminated by a low blue light that brought up bad memories. Between it and the cold, Alm was in a foul enough mood when the tunnel opened up to a steep staircase with an arch over a thin metal gate at the base.

 

In blunt, harsh lettering, it read, ‘ONLY THE WAR FATHER’S CHOSEN MAY PASS’.

 

“I’ll go on ahead, alone,” Alm said.

 

“Sir, please see reason--”

 

“I don’t mean any offense, but I’ve got a feeling you won’t have much luck with the door. And, Sir Emma, pass me that torch.”

 

The warmth was less than Alm had hoped for, but it was _something_. He approached the gate, and it swung open before him. He turned back to Magnus and his guard. “Kill anyone who tries to leave, other than me. And if I’m not back by the time your torches are dimming, get out of here and tear down the temple. Don’t freeze to death waiting.”

 

“Once more, _A-alm_ \--”

 

“Noted, Magnus. I promise I’ll listen to you one day.”

 

 _That’s not a lie, at least_ , Alm thought, as he turned and began up the stairs. A few steps up the staircase he heard the gate slam shut with a sharp ring, like glass shattering. He clutched the torch close and kept walking, glad that the floor and walls were free of ice, though the cold had long since crept in through his leather boots regardless. His hobnails scraped on the stone floor, the noise marking every winding stair, until he at last reached the top.

 

Alm emerged into a room half the size of a tennis court, and realized that had been wrong in thinking the air couldn’t get any colder than the temple halls - each breath felt like a cut in his lungs, growing bit-by-bit with each inhalation. And, on thirteen thrones arranged in a U-shape, sat the highest churchmen in the Faithful - barring Jedah himself - oblivious to the cold. The men and women wore thin red robes with black trim, leaving arms and chests exposed to the air. All were staring at Alm from the second he entered the room.

 

As if not speaking through her mouth, but rather from everywhere in the room at once, the woman in the center throne, directly across from Alm and in the middle of the U-shape, began.

 

_“Albein Godslayer.”_

 

After just hearing the name and epithet, one of the nearest Faith Councillors, to Alm’s immediate left, lost his nerve, and jumped down from his seat and bolted to the staircase so fast Alm fancied he saw a blue streak of light left in the man’s wake. He didn’t bother stopping him.

 

“My name is Alm.”

 

“ _Such distinctions are meaningless,”_ she said. Then, “ _If you come for our surrender, know you shall never receive it. We are the Faithful of the War Father, and would not do him such a disgrace.”_

 

“I know. I didn’t come here to take prisoners.”

 

As the sentence ended, Alm heard shouting, then a single scream. _Magnus’ men have done their job, it seems_. He grinned.

 

“But I do have questions.”

 

The room echoed with the High Faithful’s laughter; it was sharp and grating, like the feel of broken glass scraping against his teeth. _“And for what reason would we answer them?”_

 

“I don’t particularly care. It’s the least you could do, after your cult nearly destroyed all of Valentia. Where’s Jedah? This mess is his fault. I don’t think you could be on friendly terms.”

 

_“You would be correct. But if we knew the location and plans of our prior High Faithful, we would have taken actions ourselves. “_

 

“Nothing?”

 

_“You, of all, should be in the best place to know his whereabouts. You were the last to see Him, the day you butchered our god. Does it fill you with pride?”_

 

Alm saw no reason not to be honest with dead men. “I hardly remember anything from that day, and can’t recall slaying Duma. I remember nothing good from that day.”

 

_“That is little surprise. Proximity with the gods warps the mind, the soul, even the body. To a being as insignificant as a human it can overwhelm the senses. Truly, we who have been in His presence are a blessed few.”_

 

Alm frowned. “I’d never call it a blessing. Duma, Jedah, and the rest of you have proved yourselves to be a blight on all of the world.”

 

_“We are agreed in one aspect. Jedah led us all to ruin.”_

 

“So we are.”

 

Alm stared at the High Faithful for a few seconds, utterly still in her throne and flanked by her eleven remaining Councillors. None spoke.

 

“I think we’re done here,” he said.

 

 _“So be it. Albein Godslayer - on your guard.”_ she said, rising to her feet and letting her cloak fall away, baring her painfully thin blue flesh. The others rose a second later in one uniform motion.

 

“ _In the name of the War Father!” she cried._

 

 _“DUMA! DUMA! DUMA!”_ they called out as one.

 

A uniform light emanated from their eyes, before red beams sprouted from each of their temples, connecting all the clerics in the chamber, channeling their power together around the High Faithful. She screamed, and shakily extended her hands forward towards Alm.

 

He threw aside his torch and dropped into a fighting stance, drawing the Kingsfang from its sheath at his right, and held it out to his front just as the High Faithful shot a beam of white-red magic directly at him. It connected with the Kingsfang’s eye, and neutralized, the sword coming to glow the same color as the magic energy filling the room. Alm slid back across the floor, just slowly at first, then faster as the beam grew in power, and he leaned forward into it as much as he could manage, holding the sword as firmly as he could with his left hand under the crossguard, his right on the blade’s flat halfway up.

 

The power reached its apex and stopped growing in power - Alm’s slide halted - and he gritted his teeth, focussing on his mark, which began to glow even through his steel gauntlet. The assault from the Faithful began to slow, and Alm knew it was his turn.

 

“ _DIE_!” he screamed, taking a step into the energy and thrusting his arms forward as hard as he could manage.

 

The priest to Alm’s immediate right, whose partner had run off when Alm entered, began to scream, shaking as the magic overloaded, glowing brighter and brighter until the light from his eyes consumed his head, then exploded, his brain matter blasting his skull open and shooting out of his eyes and ears, his body slumping to the floor aflame.

 

Then, after three seconds, the next two closest to Alm followed their compatriot’s fate, then the next two after that after just a short moment later. They exploded in pairs with accelerating pace, the beam weakening every time, until just the High Faithful opposed Alm. She threw all her power into the spell, and shone with enough light to drown out all the others, her entire skeleton coming to glow pure white through her skin before she, finally, burst apart, sending bone shards whistling off in every direction.

 

The spell died with her, and the room returned to silence, though the heat took longer to dissipate. After weeks in the freezing Rigelian cold, the change was lovely, and Alm shut his eyes for a moment.

 

It was like he was back in Ram; fighting with Gray, loosing arrows at a fence with Tobin, lighting his fingers on fire with Kliff, running in the fields with Celica - or running into the forest, to escape Faye. Back then, life was warm. Never perfect, but he always had Mycen and his friends.

 

Then Alm opened his eyes, and returned to the cold world where Celica was a half year dead, only the gods could tell where Mycen was, the rest were a thousand miles away, and he was surrounded by exploded bodies, coated with chunks of their bone and brain. He held up the Kingsfang, now returning to its normal silver shine, and looked at his reflection in its smooth surface. It lent him a red glow, but his features were clear. He looked so old - bags were forming under his eyes, grey was creeping into his hair from the temples, and his beard made him look more haggard than hardened. The cold air crept back in on him again, and he lowered the blade.

 

At the head of the High Faithful’s throne, there was an idol of Duma standing, built off the top of the seat. Alm approached it. Its body was unmistakably gold, though painted red to match the dragon’s scales from a time before He was a rot-covered husk, and with three rubies on its head to represent His eyes. The dragon stood on its back legs, its wings back and its front-facing tentacles extended out, in rampant pose.

 

Alm sheathed the Kingsfang, then wound up, and punched the idol at its base, smashing the wood supporting it into splinters and throwing Duma to the ground with an echoing clang. Alm shook the pain out of his fist, then picked the statue up.

 

With his prize, he turned, and left the way he came.

 

\---

 

A detachment of soldiers, mostly clerics and healers, crowded around the temple’s entrance, awaiting any injured from Alm’s excursion. Alm had been wounded plenty of times, but never had much trouble getting back on his feet and healing up on his own. The surgeons - and particularly the healers - attending him were overly fussy, and even a tad eager, and here they slunk away seeing the party unscathed, if frigid, and in Alm’s case, splattered in Faithful.

 

An aide stood just beyond them. “My lord, your Companion-General Ezekiel has set up his staff in a room nearby. He invites you to come join him.”

 

“Excellent,” Alm said. “Lead the way.”

 

The central temple was, unusually, disconnected from the walls. More conventionally, the citadel itself lay at the northern corner of the innermost layer of fortifications, and had been the last section of the fortress to fall; in the wake of the breaching of the outermost wall, General Ezekiel had led a lightning attack that captured the next two. The defenders were caught at prayer, unprepared, and out of position, and were mopped up by the Rigelian army that poured through the breached defenses. The Faithful troops and hired mercenaries had been, or were being, put to the sword, and the citadel itself was clear and secured.

 

Alm had expected, even hoped for, more of a fight. The ease of it felt almost emptying.

 

The aide led them inside of the citadel through one of the propped-open gates, and a short way to a sort of meeting room warmed by its large, crackling fire pit. General Ezekiel stood waiting by a cleared table with his assistants - a few scribes, advisors, a mage - but more enticingly to Alm, a deep bowl of mulled wine suspended by a metal frame, kept hot by Zeke’s mage. One of the assistants scooped out a cup’s worth for him and handed it over, burning hot. Alm put the mulled wine to his lips immediately, taking a pleasant, long drink of it.

 

Once of the aides gave Alm a funny look, but said nothing. The server made sure Alm’s guard all got a cup, then Alm dismissed them, leaving just Magnus and Zeke with him.

 

“What’s the situation in the fortress?” Alm asked Zeke.

 

“We’ve secured all of the gates, and most of the wall. The Faithful fight on, but only in a handful of isolated pockets, all of which are encircled by the army. They seem inclined to go down fighting rather than yield, and our men see little distinction regardless.”

 

“Neither do I,” Alm said. “They chose to fight.”

 

“Understood. What do you wish done with those left alive? We could return them to the capital and make an example of them.” Zeke suggested.

 

“Yeah, that’s what I had been thinking. Magnus, can you send that order out? Send some men to round up whoever they find surrendering. Twenty or so should do it,” Alm said. Magnus stood by the door, implacable as ever, though unaware of the chunk of ice in his left sideburn.

 

“Of course, my lord Alm.”

 

“Thank you, Magnus.”

 

The general saluted and left, barking orders out to men gathered outside the citadel.

 

Alm refilled his cup and took another sip of wine. It was still good, though he missed the heat’s bite.

 

“How are you, Alm?” Zeke asked.

 

Alm sat down into one of the chairs and stretched out a bit, though his armor stopped him from getting too comfortable. He eyed the idol of Duma where he’d dropped it on the table. “It’s been a good day, Zeke.”

 

“The High Faithful…?” Zeke prompted.

 

“I killed her. And the rest of the Council, minus the one Magnus got. No wonder I’m so cheery.”

 

“Your father would be proud of you, Alm.”

 

“I’d rather he be here,” Alm said. “Ahh... sorry. Keep going.”

 

Zeke didn’t show any reaction. “He also began his reign with victory, against the Arthegnii barbarians of the east. This was before my arrival in Valentia, the last campaign beginning a year before your birth.”

 

“I know - Mycen taught me a bit about the Arthegnii wars. I guess it’s little wonder why. I always knew Rudolf was a great general. The barbarians invaded in the empire’s time of weakness at the end of Rigel III’s reign, when the emperor was bedridden with illness and the army was left paralyzed. When Rudolf was crowned he drove the Artheugenii out and brought peace back to Rigel.”

 

“That much is true, but it was far from an easy affair. Rudolf fought for half a decade to fully clear the empire of them, before launching his own punitive expeditions into the eastern Deadlands against their lands.”

 

“I know all of this, Zeke. He defeated them in battle, struck down their king in single combat.”

 

“What I mean to stress, Alm, is that it their depredations turned half of Rigel into a wasteland, and it took years of brutal warfare to bring a just peace. In Rudolf’s final campaign he cleared the Deadlands of Arthegnii villages for a hundred miles into the swamps, and brought back thousands of their skulls to the capital. Not a single one of them has set foot in Rigel since. What we have done here today, and in the previous months, has been a good first step. But you must always remember - what your father always knew - is that there can be no true peace without strength.”

 

“How brutal did the war grow? We’ve always tried to avoid hurting the innocent, but there were always… excesses.”

 

“I did not see it with my own eyes. But what I’ve heard… thousands dragged off in chains. Sacrifices to Duma left crucified by the roads, their skins peeled off and entrails hanging from their stomachs. The people were left to die as the empire’s generals faced off, fearing civil war in the wake of the emperor’s death. Your father’s quick action saved the people a great deal of suffering when he marched his troops into the capital and declared himself emperor.”

 

“I thought he was chosen to be emperor, for being able to wield the Kingsfang.”

 

“That was the official story. Alm, the truth of it is that your father was accepted because he proved himself to be strong in the time of crisis. The Kingsfang was a help, but it is not the entire picture. Your own position will depend upon your ability to continue your father’s mandate. The destruction of the Faithful is a good first step… but it is just that. A first step.”

 

_The things Mycen never said._

 

“Thank you Zeke. I won’t forget this… and I think you’re right. Jedah remains unaccounted for, and I cannot imagine what his plans are. We can’t be sure when the sun’s light and the land’s fertility will return. I don’t think we’ve seen the end of our troubles. We may never escape them at all.”

 

“The past… it is what it is. It can never be escaped, or changed. Only accepted, so that the future may be shaped.”

 

Alm nodded in agreement, and finished his cup. They lounged for a few minutes, in anticipation for new reports to come in, when someone knocked at the door.

 

“My lord Albein, a group of soldiers desire your attention,” called one of Alm’s guards.

 

“Open the door, let their leader in.”

 

The door swung open with a gust of chilled air, and through stepped a tall woman in a sergeant’s armor, her helmet carried under-arm. She knelt low before Alm and Zeke.

 

“No need for that. Rise, tell me what you wish to say,” Alm said.

 

“Thank you, sir. A group of men from our detachment found the castle’s main statue of the Fell God, rigged it up with demolition ropes. We thought you may want to come watch.”

 

“I’d love to, sergeant. Lead the way.”

 

\---

 

The air had cooled even further by the time of their walk, with freezing winds whistling through the fortress’ open passages and flapping Alm’s red cloak wildly about behind him until he just grabbed ahold of it and pulled the thing tighter around himself. Alm and his guard passed through the mopping-up operations, of men looting the cult’s movable gold, and splitting up prisoners; most were lined up in front of ditches and shot with crossbows, the unlucky were put in chains to receive their justice at the capital. In one cleared stable there were tents thrown up and fires burning to give shelter to the Rigelian wounded as they received aid. Alm stopped.

 

The scene was a mess. Wounded soldiers were laying in rows, some on the ground, the lucky on mats or hay set in place, with the entire area reeking of blood, feces, and urine. Men were screaming or groaning in pain, or just lying silently, too dazed and weak to make noise as their lives slipped away. Surgeons and clerics fought desperately to provide aid, and were at work cleaning wounds to save injured limbs - and if not, amputating - or bandaging lighter cuts and burns, doing all they could.

 

Alm spotted a man in the far right corner, lying face-up on a block of hay, moving little. Surgeons walked straight past him when switching patients, paying him no mind. Alm walked to one and grabbed her by her bloodsoaked gown as she made to pass him.

“That man, there,’ he said while pointing him out, “why isn’t he receiving aid?”

 

“Go see,” she spat, tugging free and going to hold a man down as another surgeon sawed off his hand, smashed by a hammer’s blow.

 

Alm walked to the back, by the man. He was a sergeant, marked by his coat and the discarded armor laid by his hay bed. As soon as Alm got a good look of the man, he understood why he was left unattended. Two arrows were embedded in his left leg, and a fireball had struck his left shoulder, the heat nearly burning the left side of his body away. His left arm was burned black, his face - once pretty, with an appealing sharpness to his features - scorched down to the bone on the left side. But as Alm stepped close, the man snapped to awareness and stared Alm in the eye, his remaining right eye a striking green. Alm knelt down by his side, and took the man’s good hand.

 

“What’s your name, sergeant?”

 

“A-al--” he wheezed, “--Albein, parents named me, named me after the emperor.”

“Where are you from? I wish to tell your family you fought valiantly.”

 

“The east… I’m all that’s left. The Faithful abducted them, sacrificed my parents, my wife… must have made a witch of her. Always good with a spell...”

 

“I understand,” Alm said.

 

Albein eyed the Kingsfang, and looked over the bloody patches on Alm’s black plate armor. “Did you kill the Council?”

 

“Yes. Every last one.”

 

“Did they suffer?”

 

“Greatly.”

 

Albein’s features twisted into half of a smile, and he laid his head back. Then he let out a roaring, room-filling laugh, nothing but hatred and spite and glee. His laugh, feeling like an eternity to Alm, caused him to convulse and shake around on his haypile.

 

He was still laughing when Alm asked, “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

 

“The prisoners…” Sergeant Albein stopped giggling, sat up, and grabbed Alm around the collar of his cloak, dragging him in close, so close that their foreheads touched, using too much strength for a dying man to muster. “Hang them, pull them up slowly so they choke and soil themselves and fear the end as it comes. Flay them, burn them, cut them apart bit by bit, feed them to the... rats and... drown them in the rivers…” Albein trailed off, his train of thought lost.

 

“I will,” Alm said. _No lie._

 

“Dastards… I win. I win!” the sergeant screamed up at the ceiling. “I win, I win, I win, I win, I win...” he muttered to himself, laughing madly all the while.

 

_He’s gone. The pain drove him mad. What a waste._

 

Alm stood, released his hand, and saluted Albein. “Thank you for your service, sergeant.”

Albein didn’t seem to hear.

 

\---

 

The sergeant finally stopped them in the fortress’ parade ground, a long and wide space sized for an army to assemble in a column, ready to march out the gates and into battle. The fortress’ size had, in fact, turned to a liability for the Faithful, whose conjured abominations numbered too few to hold the full space of the walls against determined attack.

 

Before Alm, at the ground’s centre, lay the Colossus of Duma. It stood thirty yards tall at its tip, such that it towered over the curtain wall itself. Its base was largely unadorned, only lit with a number of everburn candles surrounding it, a stone monument of Duma, standing up on His thin hind legs, His wings and tentacles reaching out to the sides and His head pointed into the sky, dwarfing Alm and all of the other men in the grounds. The War Father’s horrible visage was carved with small holes, so that with the aid of a small enchantment, the whistling wind blowing against him was transformed into the sound of a faint roar that enveloped the courtyard whenever a strong enough gust blew up.

 

Over Duma’s head and limbs, however, were laid near two-dozen or more long ropes that dangled down to collect on the ground. By each stood a squadron of infantrymen, waiting and keeping warm.

 

“Emperor Albein, sir, we know our standing orders are to destroy all idols of the fell god upon acquisition. But our captain thought you may wish to order the Colossus brought down yourself,” said the sergeant

Alm couldn’t help but smile. “She thought right. Begin as soon as you are ready.”

 

“Yes sir, Emperor Albein,” she said, in her soft tone. Then in the battle voice expected of a sergeant, she screamed, “Men! Sieze the ropes and make ready!”

 

They crouched down and picked up the ropes from the hard ground, before entering strong stances to pull and tightening their grips.

 

“Set!”

 

That order led to little movement; they were already in position. But then, “Advance!”

 

The soldiers shouted all as one, and marched forward until their ropes were taut.

 

“Pull!”

 

They shouted again, and all dragged the ropes as hard as they could. The statue remained in place, but the wind blew hard and the roar sounded loud, echoing in the concrete yard.

 

“Pull!”

 

Another shout and pull, but this time Duma shifted toward Alm, tilting down. But the wind built, the roar gaining strength with it.

 

“Pull!”

 

The men shouted again and redoubled their efforts, and the stone of Duma’s body began to flex, the form being pulled to the ground as its roar only grew louder.

 

“PULL!”

 

The soldiers put all of their strength into the ropes and shouted, but the roar this time drowned out all the noise they made, just as loud as a real dragon. _I can’t remember my fight with Duma,_ Alm thought, _but this must be what it sounded like._

 

As the shriek became intolerable, there came a sudden sound of shattering, as the Colossus’ left leg broke at the ankle, and its right followed a split second after, and it fell to the frozen concrete of the courtyard ground. As the statue hit, it smashed and broke into pieces with the impact. Most didn’t go far, but the head had been furthest from the point of rotation and had by far the most force. It hit the ground and bounced, over the men who pulled it down, and flew straight at Alm with the speed of a charging warhorse. Alm’s guard panicked and tried to pull him aside, but he had a good measure of the head’s trajectory.

 

“Let me go. There’s nothing to worry about.”

 

With some reluctance they released him, and Alm walked towards the bouncing head as it struck the ground once more and slid the last thirty feet, with a horrid scraping noise of stone against concrete. Alm put out his left hand, and the skull came to a halt against it.

 

Its ruby eyes, which seemed to just blink with light for a second, and Alm felt a sharp pain in the center of his brand, before it died away, and the stones returned to their dark red.

 

\---

 

The army stayed at the fortress while it hunted down Faithful fleeing the siege, when reports came in, one by one at first, then a flood, of disturbances in the east, until a lone, ragged rider arrived from the eastern garrisons.

 

An Arthegnii horde had crossed the inlet while the Rigelian army was putting down the Faithful Revolt in the north.

 

Forty thousand barbarians were loose in Rigel, bringing fire and death once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are. A few things that might be worth mentioning: 
> 
> \- I'll mostly be referring to the Falchion as the Kingsfang, as done here. I have reasons for it, and if people are interested I'll say, but it's not going to be too huge a deal.
> 
> \- The "Arthegnii" barbarians mentioned here are wholly made up by me, and aren't in some source material you haven't read. A few geographic features regarding them and Rigel are mentioned - if they're not self-explanatory I can expand directly. 
> 
> \- This is my first real attempt at uploading stuff I've written, so it should be interesting to see how it goes. I don't have an update schedule planned, but I don't intend on having months-long gaps between updates. 
> 
> \- It has a bit of a wonky narration style in a few parts. That's going to be largely limited to this chapter, which basically is meant as a bridge from the game to this story. I don't anticipate any more weird narrator-to-reader summary-of-fact sections.
> 
> \- If there's anything that's confusing or unclear, please ask so I can clarify it and see where I can improve on my writing.
> 
> \- In general, constructive criticism is welcomed.


	2. Alright

 

Alm said nothing after he killed Duma. When they returned to Rigel Castle, he disappeared. The day was somber, and the survivors of the expedition into the Temple of Duma were ragged and wretched, exhausted after battling their way through the labyrinthine underground complex, and the final battle with Duma. Alm slipped away from them without noise or raising notice, ghostlike even in his bloodsoaked armor. Lukas suggested he needed time to unwind on his own; Faye knew firsthand that sitting silently to obsess was the last thing he needed.

 

He was easy enough to find; the guards at the emperor’s bedroom recognized her and let her in without hassle. The room was large and airy, cool despite the summer heat, with a large hearth with chairs nearby, a sink and faucet, several wardrobes, and across all of the walls, great engravings of the Great War of Duma and Mila, the dragons colored in contrasting green and red. In the room’s center was a large table. Alm sat at it, facing away from the door, furiously working at something on the table’s surface.

  


“Alm, it’s me,” Faye announced. “I’m coming to see how you’re doing.”

 

No response.

 

Faye approached Alm, but he paid her no attention as he worked, his movements stiff and comfortless.

 

“Alm?” she said, touching a hand to his shoulder.

  


He snapped into motion, jumping back from the table and facing her over his left shoulder, his right hand clutching a reddened dagger, his left hand with almost all of the skin scraped off the back and palm, bleeding everywhere onto the table and his lap. Alm stared at her like a cornered lion; threatened, scared, violent.

  


Faye gasped and jumped back. “Alm, what are you doing?”

 

“Get out! Who let you in?”

 

“I’m not leaving. Alm, why are you hurting yourself?”

 

“I’m not. Get out.”

 

“Not until you give me the knife. Alm, what’s wrong?”

  


He swore under his breath, and buried the dagger into the table. “I’m sick of seeing the damned mark every time I look at my hand. It’s… it’s some sort of joke, from the gods. Meaningless, now Celica’s dead, like they’re just getting the last laugh. So I cut it out.”

  


“You could lose the entire hand, Alm! Show it to me.”

  


Alm hesitantly extended it to her, and Faye clasped it in both of her hands. She shut her eyes, muttered the words for a healing spell, and felt her energy flow into him.

 

Healing work always hurt. Too much of it left Faye dead on her feet, bleeding out of her nose, mouth, and ears, and with headaches that lasted for days… but it was always worth it whenever she got to touch Alm again. Giving him her energy connected them; for just a second the barrier between them was weakened, and they were one. Then it ended.

 

Faye checked her work. Alm’s hand was still bleeding at the surface on both sides, but she had healed all damage to the muscles or tendons. She had healed worse wounds of his in the past, and couldn’t help but feel proud of her work. Faye let go of his hand, and he pulled it away, but she hugged him tight, caring nothing for the blood soaking his clothes. Alm remained stiff, and didn’t wrap his arms around her.

  


“Why are you here?” he asked.

 

Faye shut her eyes and held onto him for a few seconds longer. Then she let go and moved back, looking Alm in the face. His eyes were red and distant, with large bags under.

 

“Alm, I’m coming to check on you! Right now you need somebody who cares about you--”

 

“Give it up, Faye. It’s never going to happen.”

 

The familiar feeling hit her stomach, confirming itself yet again. She ignored it.

 

“I… I know, Alm. I just want to make sure you’re alright. Everyone is worried about you.”

 

“I’m not ‘alright’. Just go. I need some time to think, okay? I’ll come and see you guys in the afternoon.”

 

“Alm, it’s six o’clock. You’ve been in here all day.”

 

“I don’t...”

 

“Alm, I can tell you haven’t slept or eaten. I can’t leave you alone, not like this.”

 

“If I mean anything to you, Faye, leave now.”

 

“Alm, please!” Faye stepped closer to him, and his face whitened.

 

“Get. Away. From. Me.”

 

“I care about you, Alm. You can’t just push everyone away.”

  
  


Faye reached for his hand, when Alm jerked into motion, and swung at her, striking her across her cheek with the back of his right hand - sharp pain burst across her face and she staggered back in shock, against the table. She put a hand up to her warm cheek, feeling at the tingling pain where he had touched her.

 

_It’s not too bad, he could’ve hit me harder. Alm didn’t mean to hurt me. I shouldn’t have startled him._

Alm stepped back from her, looking at his hand in shock and disgust.

  


“This… this is what I am, Faye. This is what I do to people. I kill everyone I touch... not you too.”

  


He lunged forward and grabbed Faye by her hand, pulled her to the door, and opened it to push her through, but she latched onto the frame, as the tears came, and she struggled to speak.

  


“Alm…” she choked out, “I just want to help you.”

 

He shoved her through, and Faye fell to the ground, unable to will herself to stay afoot.

 

“Run,” Alm said. He shut the door.

  
  
  


_Late Autumn, 402 VC_

  


Alm had rode on the highway of southern Rigel three times before.

 

First, northbound, leading the Deliverance over the border to seek battle with Rudolf and any who would block their path to the capital.

 

Second was the ride south, to the coronation he and Conrad shared at the border; third was back north again, to put an end to the Faithful. With each trip the whole region had grown more ravaged, desolate, increasingly devoid of life. When leading the Deliverance Alm had sought to minimize the campaign’s brutality  -

 

_Pointless. There are always excesses in war. Imagining otherwise is a child’s folly._

 

\-  but even with their well-stocked supply train the army had gobbled up anything edible they came across. The second and third trips had been through the same ravaged region, only in the cool early autumn rather than the heights of summer; then the land was clear of life, with nothing but rolling plains and twisted, windswept trees.

 

But none of those sights could compare to Southern Rigel in the wake of the Arthegnii.

 

They had crossed over in the Empire’s southeast while the imperial army was deployed in the north against the Duma Faithful, and split in two groups, then ravaged as deep into Rigel as they fancied. No help was forthcoming from Zofia. Alm spent the rest of the spring, then the summer, then the autumn, chasing them about to zero effect; one of their hosts would retreat and retreat and retreat when Alm tried to pin them into battle, and the other would spread itself wide over the country; burning, looting, killing, enslaving. When they had their fill of slaughter they returned east, leaving Alm just enough time to make his summit with Conrad.

 

But passing through the lands the barbarians had destroyed was harrowing. Not dangerous - they had never made any attempt to hold land - but difficult to bear, even considering all that Alm had seen since he left Ram Village.

 

The Arthegnii were devout in their adherence to the War Father, but lacked even the basic restraints practiced by the Faithful in Rigel. When they sacked a village they put the healthy in chains, and sacrificed their choice of the rest; the favored method was to crucify a victim by the roadside, then slash open their guts and drag their intestines out to hang free in replication of Duma’s tentacles. Alm’s army buried three hundred and seventy eight such sacrifices in the fighting season, and in the week spent riding south to the summit, his party had found twenty-nine more.

 

 _Four hundred and seven._  

 

There were many more killed in other ways - and near four thousand confirmed as dragged off in bondage - but that number stuck with Alm. Four hundred and seven. Four hundred and seven butchered for a dead god’s favor. Four hundred and seven failures, four hundred and seven times he wasn’t there for his people.

 

_Four hundred and seven scores to be settled._

 

The one before Alm now - number four hundred and eight - was a man of perhaps seventy, with long, matted green hair that hung down limp. His eyes had been picked out by crows before his body froze too solid to eat at. He was naked with an empty torso, his innards having fallen free to collect in a rotten pile at the base of the post.

  


“I wonder what his name was,’ Alm said.

 

“The land is cleared for ten miles, and I doubt there is hope of finding his family. I will order his remains burned and buried.” Zeke said, then rode off to find the burial team. Alm stayed staring at the dead man, whose features were twisted into the blank expression most dead men shared.

 

_Four hundred and eight._

 

_Rest easy. I won’t forget you._

  


\---

  


To the first Valentian Summit, Alm had intended on bringing wagons of gold liberated from the treasuries of the Duma Faithful, to demonstrate the progress of the great enemy finally laid to rest. But the gold had all been spent in months keeping Rigelian armies in the field against the Arthegnii; the summer campaign’s costs had left him with nothing to show from that of the spring.

 

The summit was meant to be yearly, to the extent that was feasible, swapping in location between the Rigelian and Zofian capitals, also, as much as possible. It was the latter that had failed; Alm couldn’t spare going so far south with the Arthegnii active recently and so the meeting was politely shifted to Arais, a small city on the south bank of the border river. Like most Zofian cities prior to the war, it was unwalled, and had fallen to Rudolf’s armies in the first days of his invasion, having put up little resistance.

 

King Conrad met Alm’s party at the city outskirts; he rode forth in gleaming white plate armor, a red cloak flowing from his shoulders, and the Zofian crown perched atop his brow. Twenty Zofian knights rode with him - Alm recognized them all - and a large crowd had gathered in advance, not to mention the sizeable contingent of troops that lined the highway’s course.

  


“Brother,” Conrad said in his airy tone, “I welcome you to Zofia, and Arais.”

  


He extended his hand with a smile, and though Alm felt the eyes of his guard scrutinizing Conrad’s hand, he shook it. White and black gauntlets intertwined for a moment.

 

It was a warm welcome for a Rigelian emperor, though one balanced out by the army’s presence - Alm estimated it at two thousand and change - encamped at the city and standing along the road.

 

_Warmth, then, but not weakness. The display is, mostly, for the citizens of Arais. Nothing wrong with showing strength._

  


“Thank you, Brother. Let’s get going. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

  


Conrad nodded, and wheeled his horse around to ride beside Alm, with each followed by their guard. Riding up the road, Alm caught a quick glimpse of many familiar faces - Clive first, followed by Mathilda and then Lukas, then near the end of the line, Gray and Tobin’s unmistakeable faces. Alm couldn’t help but smile; Gray gave him a wink through his visor.

 

Arais was a pleasant little town; it had flowerbeds planted by the roadside, though they were limited to just winter flowers in the cold weather, and the city was blessed with the river’s clean waters and a strong enough breeze to keep the urban stench from growing too strong. Alm and Conrad rode through together, taking a few detours to give a chance to the whole crowd to see them. The Zofians seemed fond of their new king and his roster of knights, refreshed after the war’s attrition did a fine job of rooting out the old and corrupt men from Lima’s reign. The crowds cheered just as loudly for Alm as they did for Conrad; rather charitable, considering the last time they had hosted the emperor of Rigel.

  


\---

  


They went on a brief parade through the city streets, before Conrad led them back to the city’s central hall, a small palace along the river that had enough room for Alm’s household and retinue, and several large buildings with meeting rooms ideal for the summit.

 

When Alm’s party had cleaned off and changed after their ride, royal servants guided them through the palace’s wide hallways to a central meeting room. Conrad’s party lounged outside it - one, Alm recognized in particular.

  


“Sir Clive!” he said, dashing over to the man. “How have you been?”

 

“Alm! Well met!” Clive jumped to his feet, clasped Alm’s hand, and they shook vigorously. “You’ve… grown,” he laughed. Alm realized, suddenly, he had. Clive always seemed to over him, and had something like a quarter of a foot on Alm the last time they spoke. Now they were at eye level - that, even, was generous to Clive.

 

Alm chuckled. “I’d hardly noticed. I guess we’ve just been so busy. How have you been? And Mathilda, too!”

 

Clive beamed. “She gave birth to our first child, early last month, a strong little girl.” Clive produced a little drawing done of a baby - her appearance was largely interchangeable in the way most children her age were, but Alm was too happy for Clive to draw attention to the fact.

 

“What’s her name?”

 

“Anthiese,” Clive said, still smiling, not missing a beat.

  


_Oh._

 

_Don’t stop smiling, don’t stop smiling, don’t stop smiling._

  


“That’s lovely.”

 

“Anthiese is already such a clever girl, I know she’ll be as great a knight as Mathilda,” Clive said, then, “Clair suggested she might be a pegasus rider, but she’s already too big!” and then something else, but Alm didn’t catch much of it.

  


_Shut up, Clive, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up--_

  


“That’s great, Clive. That’s really great.”

 

“I’m sure you can meet little Anthiese…”

  


_Stop saying it! How dare you take her name?_

 

The final moments of Celica’s life were the last thing Alm wanted to think about, but there she was again in his arms, in agony, choking on her blood.

  


“That’s lovely.”

  


Clive smiled again at the drawing.

  


“Now that everyone is here, should we begin?” Conrad cut in.

  


Alm’s Rigelian companions hadn’t made an attempt to socialize, and had stood back to stare down their Zofian counterparts, so Conrad’s breaking of the silence was welcomed by all.

  


“Yes, that sounds good.” Alm said.

 

Everyone made their way into the conference room. It was a comfortably-sized room, mostly taken up by a rectangular table with room for five on each long side. The south side of the room had a large stained glass window depicting the heroes Zofia and Rigel fighting together against the Sea Peoples, while the north had a hearth burning hot and bright, leaving the room warm, almost stuffy.

 

When they were seated, Alm’s scribe passed him a folder, containing papers with various important figures and points written on, most of which Alm had memorized already, but he found having them on paper helpful. Conrad spoke.

  


“Are things as bad as we have been told?” he asked, straight to the point.

 

“Yes, they are. Worse. The Arthegnii ravaged half of the eastern provinces intensively, and did harsh damage to others. They prefer to follow a pattern; they capture a village, put the children and elderly to the sword, and drag those of working age off as slaves.”

 

Alm saw as several of the Zofians had their eyes involuntarily go wide in surprise, Conrad as much as any. “I had heard of their savagery in the Arthegnii wars, but I’d always thought it was mere exaggeration, for greater glory over a defeated enemy,” he said.

 

Alm frowned at that. “We buried bodies on the ride here, Conrad. Nailed to crosses, with their guts cut out of their stomachs. My father defeated the Arthegnii, but seemed to have failed in destroying them. That needs to be our first priority.”

 

“First?” Conrad asked. “I had thought it would be relief efforts in the afflicted provinces. We’ve been preparing supplies for weeks.”

 

“Of course we need to provide relief. But there’s no point in rebuilding houses and stocking granaries just for the Arthegnii to burn and loot them again. After all, we’re here to discuss how to deal with their threat.”

 

Alm stood to gesture at the map of the Empire spread out between him and Conrad, dragging his finger along the southeast. “The Arthegnii move south from the Deadlands and cross south over the inlet, with some raiding in longships along the coast, further north and west. From what rumors and scouting information we’ve managed to get, they move the slaves much further north, but we don’t know where they end up, or if they’re split into smaller groups and spread out. We’ll find out in the spring, I suppose.”

 

Conrad raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

 

“We’re launching our own expedition into the deadlands in the spring, to defeat them and rescue the slaves they took. I mean… didn’t you know? I thought that was the entire point of us speaking here.”

  


Conrad and his advisers - Sir Clive, who represented the Zofian knights, the kingdom’s chancellor, and a mixed handful of others - looked amongst themselves in confusion.

  


“This… comes as a surprise to us. We had thought we would be trying to discuss terms with the Arthegnii.”

 

“Discuss terms? After they’ve torched a third of the empire?”

 

“Yes. It’s not worth getting overly impassioned about it, particularly when we have better courses of action than escalating the war.”

 

“Like what.” Alm said; prompting, not asking.

 

“We would negotiate a non-aggression treaty, and their return of all captives, in exchange for regular tribute. Surely you can see that a few thousand pounds of gold per year will convince them to stay on their side of the inlet.”

  


The room was too hot and stuffy around Alm, so that he felt sticky, and would’ve been irritable even without the discussion’s turn toward appeasement. He stared Conrad down, and the small, curly-haired king seemed to shrink away a bit.

  


“Never.”

  


No-one said anything for a few seconds, so Alm followed it up.

  


“The day I beg those savages for peace is the day I throw my crown down a well and ride into the sea. They threatened Rigel thirty years ago, and Emperor Rudolf crushed them. Nothing has changed. We were not their slaves then, and we are not now.”

 

“I cannot see how that is relevant. Paying them to leave us be is no show of weakness, and we wouldn’t think to disband our armies. This merely makes their work easier; there is no need for violence when it can be avoided so easily. “

  


_Idiot._

  


“A show of weakness is exactly what it is. If we show them we’re not willing to fight them, then they’ll just wait until we hit some other crisis, and they’ll be there asking for more. If we take a strong stance now, we’ll show everyone what happens to our enemies.”

 

“What other enemies?” Conrad asked. “The Sea Peoples were defeated centuries ago by Zofia and Rigel themselves. There is an entire desert between our borders and the mercenary kingdoms of the east. There is no-one to fight save for the Arthegnii, and peace can be bought so easily we needn’t bother.”

  


_Blind, foolish, thrice-damned idiot._

  


“How can you be sure? If the Sea Peoples came from the east once, they can do so again--”

 

“That was hundreds of years ago.”

 

“Who knows what else we might face? To half of Rigel I’m some Zofian conqueror, and they’d love to see me toppled. If the empire slips into civil war, then the Arthegnii invade just as they did before, and to top that, for all we know the land’s fertility may never recover. If we don’t deal with the Arthegnii while we can, we might just be stumbling into an even bigger crisis we could have avoided in the first place if we showed a bit of spine rather than cowering and begging for the savages’ mercy! Why don’t you trust my judgement on this?”

 

Conrad shrunk a bit, and took a second to compose himself. “Brother, if we wish for this partnership to work, you will have to trust in mine as well.”

  


Alm ground his teeth and stared Conrad down. His mark burned, and the hand curled into a tight fist under the table.

 

_Breathe._

 

Alm inhaled, held the breath, and exhaled.

  


“You’re right,” he conceded. “Let’s set this aside for now. We’re getting nowhere.”

 

Conrad nodded. “We can return to it on the morrow. Thank you for hearing our concerns, Albein.”

 

_Don’t push it._

  


\---

  


The cold air felt comforting to Alm after hours cooped up in the near-furnace of the conference room, and he shut his eyes for a few seconds as he walked out into the dusk. Fresh snow crunched under his feet, and fresh flakes fell onto him and soon melted against his cloak. Alm rubbed at his temples, his head and throat aching from hours of negotiations. He surely spoke as much that day than he had in the last three months altogether. The cold was nothing against what Alm was used to back in Rigel, so he felt fairly comfortable even wearing indoor clothes.

 

The smothered silence of the evening, more than anything, was refreshing for Alm. It was like home.

 

The courtyard they stood in was enclosed by buildings and a few gates all around, and was mostly deserted, save a few knights heading back to their rooms after an evening training session in the snow.

 

A pair walked slowly and dropped behind the others. Alm recognized their voices, and even after the long day, couldn’t help but smile.

  


\---

  


“I swear to the gods, Tobin, you could be king of the world and you still wouldn’t know your crotch hair from your shoestrings.”

  


Tobin’s useless fingers fumbled at his bootlaces, only serving to shuffle them around more and, perhaps, indicate Gray had something of a point.

  


“Sh-shut up, Gray. It’s cold, and I’m tired.”

 

Gray stretched out, then shivered a bit. “You’re right there. It’s freezing! All the sweat in my gambeson is hardly helping any. Maybe you should, y’know…”

 

Tobin looked up. “I am hurrying!” he snapped.

 

“Then hurry harder!” Gray shot back. “I don’t wanna leave you to die out here, buddy.”

 

“Oh, Gray, you can just go fu--”

  


Something white smashed into Gray’s stomach, so fast Tobin just saw a blur of it across his vision before it exploded into a white powder and mist, sending Gray toppling over and gasping for breath. Tobin shot to his feet to check what it was, when Gray, lying on his back in the snow, reached up a weak left hand to point.

  


“Behind…”

  


Tobin whipped around fast enough to see something black and green flash towards him before it opened its arms and tackled him, wrapping itself around his chest, driving its shoulder into his ribs, and sending them both into a snowdrift.

 

Tobin lay back, unable to breathe, hurting _everywhere_ , the thing still wrapped around him.

 

_I’m dead. This is how it ends. I survive a war and help kill a god and I die to some monster in a snow drift after training--_

 

The thing broke out into laughter.

  


“Hey guys, it’s good to see you again!!” said the monster.

  


_That’s Alm’s voice._

 

Tobin looked down at it.

 

_And face._

  


“Hey Alm,” he tried to say, though it came out closer to ‘heeeyarm.’

 

Alm laughed and climbed off, tugging Tobin up to his feet like he was a thin fallen tree branch. Tobin kept his footing, and Gray staggered over, clutching his gut. “The hell was… why’re you throwing rocks?” Gray groaned.

 

Alm, seeming twice the size of the last time they saw him, raised an eyebrow. “It’s just snow, and I barely even packed it. Don’t tell me a year without fighting’s gotten you two all soft.”

 

“I think you throw a bit hard, Alm,” Tobin said. But he wrapped an arm around him despite the pain, and smiled a bit. “It’s good to see you again.”

 

“You too, Tobin.” Alm shone, with the smile all of the girls used to love so much.

  


They ended up back at Alm’s guestroom, where he went drink-for-drink with Gray and Tobin until Gray passed out, Tobin was half-awake, and Alm was in a storytelling mood. He stumbled his way through one about exploding heads, while Tobin stacked as many pillows as he could on Gray’s stomach - five total - one on top of another.

  


“It’s, it’s good to have you back, Alm,” Tobin mumbled, unsure if he was interrupting, as his sixth pillow sent the whole tower tumbling down. Gray snorted a bit, but didn’t wake.

 

“I… I think I’m turning into Albein, Tobin.”

 

“Hail Albein Alm Rudolf the second, Emperor of Rigel!” Tobin shouted, most likely too loud for the late hour. “You’re an Emperor, and Albein, and Alm. Rudolf too. I’m just ‘Sir Tobin’.”

 

“Sir,” Alm laughed. “That must be nice.”

 

“Better than just ‘Tobin’, I’ll tell you.”

 

Alm walked around the massive bed and flopped down on his back. “I’m so fucking tired of all this shit.”

  


Tobin didn’t know what Alm was talking about, and didn’t say anything for a few seconds. When he turned back, Alm’s eyes were shut, and he had passed into sleep. Tobin went and extinguished the remaining candles, kicked off his boots, crawled into the middle of the bed, and twisted around until he had enough of the covers wrapped around him to stay warm.

  


“Goodnight, Emperor Alm.”

  


\---

  


The next morning, Alm left Gray and Tobin to sleep off their hangovers, and returned to the talks with Conrad. They didn’t bring up the Artheugnii, at first, and managed to make some decent progress in a half-dozen other issues. To Alm’s satisfaction, they agreed to end trade tariffs in coastal cities, easing the import of cheap Zofian grain. They would encourage cross-border marriages between the nobility, and when a compatible match was possible, one of Alm’s children would be wed to Conrad’s.

 

If it hadn’t meant spending most of a day talking about everything but the actual issue pressing them, Alm would’ve considered it a job well done. But even that had to come back up, once they had nothing else to speak of.

  


“I suppose that leaves the Arthegnii issue,” Conrad said.

 

“I suppose it does,” Alm said.

 

“Albein, we have discussed it in more depth, and would at least like to hear your proposal for an offensive into the Deadlands.”

 

“Well, it’s exactly that. We would take the eastern army north over the inlet this spring, with some units from the capital army sent to reinforce the border in their absence. I’ll spend the summer raiding Arthegnii lands to force them to come to battle, and defeating them when they do. Through raiding we’ll locate and rescue the captive Rigelians, who we can evacuate by ship. The loot we take can help offset the costs of the invasion.”

 

“I see,” Conrad said. “Are you sure you would be able to force the Arthegnii to give battle? What if it takes longer than the summer?”

 

“They’ll come. My father’s campaigns forced them to fight by destroying their villages. Burn enough and their king won’t have a choice. Prestige and all that. And if it takes longer than the summer, we stay the winter. That’ll be their problem, not ours.”

  


That didn’t convince Conrad.

  


“Are you sure the army is willing to spend the winter fighting?”

 

Zeke cut in. “ _Rigelian_ soldiers are not deterred by the weather.”

 

Conrad and Clive gave him a look for that.

 

“I see,” Conrad said. “But how would you fund this?”

 

Alm leaned back in his seat. “Well, the Duma Faithful coughed up plenty of coin. I can’t see why your Faithful would be any different.”

 

“They... what?”

 

“The Mila Faithful, Conrad. They’ve got temples full of silver and gold statues of the Earth Mother, plus the rest of their trinkets. For the last year they’ve been praying to a dead god. Shake them for some gold and we’ll go to war with what falls out.”

 

“It would hardly be that simple, Albein. And, regardless, I can’t see what it give us that simple negotiations and payments wouldn’t, for far less cost.”

 

“ _Fear_ , Conrad. And their respect. The Empire has fought these savages as long as it has existed, and they’ve always pressed hardest when they thought we’re weak. If we go to them with coin, begging for mercy, then as soon as we reach a real crisis they’ll be back. If we destroy them today we won’t have to worry about them tomorrow.”

 

“But your father’s wars against them didn’t end the threat.”

 

”Perhaps if yours had lent a hand they would have.”

  


Alm felt everyone’s eyes on him.

  


“But the past is the past,” he retracted.

“I would hope so,” Conrad said.

“But _still_ , Conrad. We can’t just leave the Arthegnii unfought.”

 

“Regardless of what is desirable, we don’t have the money to fight them. We’ve been over this.”

 

“Yes, we do! We just have to take it.”

 

“We do not need to trade a barbarian invasion for a religious uprising. The Kingdom of Zofia will gladly work to find a negotiated settlement with the Arthegnii leadership. But it will not subsidize an excursion over the inlet. That is my final statement.”

 

Before Alm could respond, a knocking came at the door - even though they had ordered the guards only to let through the most vital messages. “Come in!” Alm shouted through.

  


The door swung open, and a haggard, bleary-eyed woman staggered through, unarmored but in the clothing of one of the horse regiments of the Rigelian border garrisons. Her clothes were battered, covered in water and mud, so filthy that Alm could smell from across the room.

  


“Your Excellence,” she said, beginning to kneel.

 

“Rise,” Alm said as soon as she started lowering - for all he knew she wouldn’t be able to get herself back up again -  “Speak at once.”

 

She took a breath to compose herself, opened her mouth as if to start speaking, tried to speak and instead swayed, nearly losing her footing. It seemed like trying to speak took up all her willpower; she was set to collapse.

  


“The Arthegenii are returned. A… a horde of them crossed the inlet a fortnight ago, I’m from the eastern garrison, only just made it to you…”

 

“How many? And where?” Alm demanded, his heart pumping up, ready for motion. He waved for her to approach.

 

The rider leaned forward on the table, and for a second Alm thought she would pass out, when she put an unsteady finger on the map northeast of Fear Mountain, where the inlet was narrowest. “At the fords near Relastan Village… ten, twenty thousand, we couldn’t know. They’re burning everything they see.”

  


_The war comes again._

 

_Thank the gods._

  


“Go with General Ezekiel, and tell him everything you know, before you pass out.” The general guided the messenger out with him, steadying her with an arm so she didn’t collapse. Alm stood up after them and stretched, then chuckled.

 

“I think we’re done here. We’re off,” he said.

 

“Wha-off? We still have issues to discuss.”

  


Alm’s companions rose and began gathering the few documents they had brought.

  


“We can discuss them when this is dealt with. We’ve got barbarians loose in the empire, and I’m not _negotiating_ with them one bit. They’re going to leave because we drive them out at spearpoint, not because we beg for their mercy.” Alm looked at Clive and Lukas, where they sat at Conrad’s left. “If you two are still up for fighting, I would welcome Zofian reinforcements. We leave at dawn.”

  


Alm turned and left, not waiting for their answer.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sort hate this chapter. It took me around twice as long to write as the first , and it seems worse in almost every single way. I’m sort of just giving up on doing actual edits and reworking, because it’s kind of beyond saving, and any effort is better spent on just trying to get past it. 
> 
> The good news is that I managed to concentrate the crap in here, so next chapter should be a bit better. I’ve also procrastinated on writing this chapter enough so that I got some work done on chapter 3, so that definitely won’t take a month. Chapter 4 is going to be pretty good, and I’m aiming to get it out not long after chapter 3; I’ve got a good amount of free time due to my finals being finished. Chapter 4 will be pretty wild, so it might take some reworks even once I’ve got it done. Still, I’m hoping to have 3 out before the end of Christmas break, and 4 out soon after.
> 
> Added note #1: I tried to post this last night but gave up after spending around an hour trying to paste it directly into HTML, having forgotten what Rich Text is. I'm not very smart.
> 
> Added note #2: I think the calendar year is right by the Valentian Calendar. For the purposes of this story, the events of Echoes, from Lukas arriving in Ram Village to Alm slaying Duma, to Alm and Conrad being crowned, took up most of 401 VC. Busy year. Alm fought the Duma Faithful in the spring of 402 VC, then the Arthegnii all summer and into the early fall, leading us to where we are now. If I turn out to have the date wrong I might fix it, or just acknowledge the error; whichever causes the least confusion. I'm playing with canon and stuff I've thrown in, so if something is confusing, please say so I can clarify it.
> 
> Post-update edit note: oh yeah and I didn't even fucking know what I was doing with the title, but I committed to naming the chapters with phrases rather than numbers like a normal person and I'm carrying that to the fucking end zone so I'm just slapping that on there 5 minutes after uploading because I couldn't think of anything smart. Yeehaw
> 
> Post-update edit note #2: I'm laughing my ass off now because I found a mildly-better chapter title I'd written in my journal for this, but because I'd been putting the whole thing off for weeks I hadn't seen it. If the number of screwups and slapdash fixes to this chapter alarm you, I have the following words of reassurance:


	3. A New Look

 

_Lukas,_

 

_Even as I write this now I still cannot make up my mind about you. This is my fourth attempt at getting it out on paper, and I still half expect to tear it up halfway through and start anew._

 

_You are so distant. That you spend all of your time in the capital and never visit is just half of it. Even in the times we have spoken face-to-face it’s like you’re a thousand miles away. I cannot get a measure of what goes on inside of your head, let alone your heart. It is like nothing means anything to you, like all the world could come to an end, and you would only utter something pithy, that it was undesirable or unfortunate._

 

_And if the world means little to you, I can tell I mean near nothing._

 

_It’s over between us, and I’ve found a new man. He plays the lyre so beautifully, and when he holds me and smiles I feel like the world grows warmer around me. I’m happy in a way I never was before._

 

_I don’t hate you, Lukas. I wish it had been different. I hope you find happiness, whatever you consider that to be._

 

_Sincerely,_

 

_Jane_

_P.S: I have included money with this letter. Please return by post the books I have lent you, listed below (...)_

 

 

Lukas finished reading the letter, then went over it once more to ensure clarity.

 

_Jane in another man’s arms._

 

The thought should have disgusted him. Lukas had received the letter half a week before Alm marched north from Arais but had neglected to read it until they were two weeks into Rigel. He had no time to process it or respond, and Jane would have a long time to wait for Lukas to return the books she had lent him.

 

“Sir Lukas!” Forsyth shouted into the tent, shuffling in a second after. He was prepared, dressed in a mail shirt and helmet with his sword sheathed. “Sir, are you readied?”

“Yes, Forsyth. Just give me a second.”

Forsyth saw the letter Lukas was still glancing over. “Sir, is that an order for the patrol?”

“It is not.”

“Is it something important, sir?”

Lukas shoved the letter at Forsyth to quiet him for the five seconds it took him to read through, then continued rummaging through his bag.

“That dastardly woman! How utterly wicked! Sir, You ought to return at once and beat sense into her, and this scoundrel--”

Lukas grabbed the letter back from Forsyth and stuffed it into his pack, and retrieved the firestarter he’d been looking for in the first place, pocketing it after a test yielded a cloud of sparks. “I have what I was looking for. Let us depart at once,” Lukas said, moving to leave the tent. Forsyth blocked his path.

“Sir, you ought to be more alarmed!”

 

Lukas nudged Forsyth aside; he had never been tall, but Forsyth was long and gangling, and it took little exertion to push him about.

 

“Forsyth, you are now a knight. You need not call me sir.”

 

Forsyth sighed and glanced at his boots for a moment, then continued his tirade. “This insult is a blight upon your honor! You should be angered! Enraged! Infuriated!” Forsyth shouted.

 

_Perhaps he is right. Perhaps Jane was too._

“Regardless of my own feelings, there is precious little within my capabilities in the near future. Even were I to write back with harsh words, my best opportunity at delivering the letter would be throwing it from the camp as far as I am able,” Lukas said.

“That- that is… very well, then. As soon as we are done with this Arthegnii business we will be paying this lover of hers a visit to duel. I will be your second.”

Lukas sighed, though he couldn’t help but be amused at Forsyth’s passion. “I appreciate the sentiment, Forsyth. All I ask of you is that you take care during this patrol.”

Forsyth’s eyes narrowed. “I will do both, then. Let us be off.”

 

Their horses were a short walk away. Their third companion, Clement, was already mounted with his bow strung, and was warming it in a frantic sort of way, either from nerves or impatience. He saluted when they rounded the corner. “Sir Lukas. Sir Forsyth,” he said, always one with respect for rank, then began riding to the gate. Lukas mounted, accepted a shield and spear from a groom, and followed Forsyth after their archer. They met him at the camp’s east gate and departed, early in the morning to scout ahead of the army.

 

The road, such as it was, was more of a trail in parts, with the forest creeping in on either side leaving the path constricted. While dark and cold, Lukas appreciated the fresh air, and while the dense woodlands felt claustrophobic, they were also too dense for Arthegnii warriors to conceal themselves for an easy ambush. Regardless, the three rode in a diagonal line with a few yards between, so that they were near enough to speak and readily assist each other, but far enough so that an attack from any direction couldn’t kill all three of them without giving at least one a chance to escape.

 

They rode several hours without incident, and eventually the narrow path opened out onto a wide plain hollowed out in the trees. To the north, the plains sloped down at a gradual angle, meeting a thin stream, then the dense forest just afterward. while the land to the south was flat, fading into the forest after a quarter or half mile, with mountains hanging over in the background. It was obvious the Arthegnii had used it as a campsite, with trees felled and cut for firewood, hundreds of blacked firepits spotting the plain, along with latrines dug out of the hard soil, and some abandoned carts strewn about by the roadside on the far east end of the grounds, where the forests closed around the trail once more.

 

The weather was cold but clear, leaving the morning bright and crisp. Some trees held snow in their branches, and the sun’s light turned them bright white, almost painful to stare at too long. Lukas had begun to admire the beauty of the landscape when Clement hissed, “Movement!”, waving for Lukas and Forsyth to clear the trail. They dashed to the side to take some cover between the trees, then glanced back at Clement, who gestured to his eyes, then to the south side of the road, about halfway through the hollow. Lukas leaned out from behind his tree and squinted. There were a few figures on horseback disappearing into the trees as he sighted them; Clement must have been extremely attentive to have noticed them in the first place. Lukas waved Clement over, a minute after the riders passed out of view.

 

“Good work, Clement,” he said when the archer joined him and Forsyth.

He nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

Lukas kept a lookout as he spoke. “Those must be Arthegnii. No other men could have business here.”

“Let us ride and put them to rout at once. Our honour demands it!” said Forsyth, stretching out his spear arm in anticipation.

He wasn’t entirely wrong. Under the Zofian knightly code, it was a severe offense for an armored man to shirk from a fight or retire - even if wounded - without an officer’s permission, and the three of them would only have been more armored if they were riding into battle. But…

 

“Our mission is to observe first, then destroy the enemy forces once located,” Lukas responded. “We will not be crying out our lord’s name and charging with lances couched… yet. We will move into the wood after them and establish their purpose, then attack if it is appropriate. Any objections?”

“What if this is an ambush, sir?” asked Clement.

“Then at worst it claims three rather than striking our comrades. Clement, if I give the order or am struck down, fall back immediately and find the next patrol. Forsyth and I will hold them as best we can.”

 

Clement nodded, and Forsyth was raring for a fight, so Lukas sensed there were no further concerns. He rode out first, followed by Forsyth, with Clement a way’s back to cover them. They rode as quickly as could be done quietly until they reached the first trees, then spread out abreast in a line, Forsyth five yards to Lukas’ right, Clement five to his left. They proceeded at a careful walk, sticking by trees to minimize visibility. Lukas began to hear something in the distance up ahead, after ten minutes of their creeping advance, but couldn’t pinpoint the location in the woods.

 

Lukas signalled the others to stop, to try and get a better read on the Arthegnii position; he could hear muffled thumping and voices. It sounded like just a few men at work. Suddenly, he heard a whooshing noise from his right and whipped over at it, only to see Forsyth excitedly waving his spear over his head to get Lukas’ attention. He gestured for Forsyth to quit it, then, quietly, waved over to Clement, indicating he follow him to Forsyth. The other knight’s signal was enthusiastic rather than urgent, so Lukas dismounted and led his horse over to reduce his profile as best he could.

 

“There!” whispered Forsyth, gesturing with his spear once Lukas reached him; he had to mount up again to have any sight on what Forsyth was pointing toward. It was still a ways off, but between the trees and bushes, he could make out three Arthegnii men working at something in a tree, lowering down some sort of bundle with a rope. Two were mounted still, standing in the saddle to get better reach into the tree’s branches, the third afoot and working with the rope. They were alone, or, if not, did excellent work in hiding it; the three only spoke to each other and never looked outward to men out of Lukas’ sight. The Arthegnii also seemed to believe they were alone; they shouted and laughed loudly enough that the patrol’s quiet approach was a wasted effort.

 

After Clement reached them, Lukas remounted and observed the Arthegnii for another minute. They continued about their work, bringing another bundle down from the tree and placing it by the half dozen of others they had secured, then moving to another tree. The whole time, they never communicated to other men; Lukas was certain it was just the three of them.

 

“Have either of you an idea what they are up to?” Lukas asked.

Forsyth shrugged. Clement continued peering at the Arthegnii, hyper-focused and attentive, but shook his head with a negative grunt.

“Very well. We are to ride forth and defeat the three riders. Clement--”

Forsyth couched his spear, reared his horse back, and cried out, “For Conrad and Zofia!”, charging into the wood screaming at the top of his lungs.

Clement hissed a curse in shock.

 

“Go around the forest where it’s clear, cut off their escape! I’ll follow Forsyth,” Lukas shouted, bringing down his spear and digging in his spurs, with Clement bolting off in the other direction. Lukas brought his horse to the quickest gallop he could manage among the trees, and had to keep low to avoid riding face-first into sturdy branches, but thin, long ones still whipped against his face and arms. Forsyth alternated between various battle cries, and simple screaming, which gave Lukas some ability to track him through the forest as they charged - suddenly, then, Lukas broke through the trees into a hollow path wide enough to ride on. Forsyth was directly in front of him, with the Arthegnii beyond. The two riders had drawn axes, and were charging back at Forsyth, while the dismounted man was bolting toward his tied horse. Clement was nowhere in sight.

 

A stray branch cracked across Lukas’ face, whipping pines against his face and eyes, and for a few seconds he lost sight.

 

“For Emperor Alm, the Godslayer!” Forsyth screamed, and Lukas heard the sound of a heavy blow and a scream. By the time he got his eyes open, Forsyth had broken past the two riders, leaving one sprawling on the path impaled on a spear head, the other charging directly at Lukas with his axe raised for a strike with the fallen rider’s confused horse bounding along at his side. Lukas’s left eye had teared up from the branch hit, making it near impossible to aim a strike at the oncoming rider. Lukas thrust his spear but was far late and hit only air; the Arthegnii rider prepared to swing at Lukas’ head when the other rider’s horse threw him off-balance, and the two passed each other by.

 

Lukas glanced forward - Forsyth was chasing the third man, now mounted, still no Clement - then craned his head backwards to see the rider he had passed was turned around, and chasing him down. Lukas tossed his spear into a tree, wiped at his bad eye, and drew his sword, turning around again. The rider was gaining on him, pulling up on his left where he couldn’t swing his sword, leaving him defenseless. Lukas turned left as far as he could manage to make his shield ready, but the Arthegnii rider declined to attack him.

 

Then Lukas heard it - thundering hooves from the front, a scream of “Death to King Zekstriss!”

 

He turned forwards just in time to see Forsyth charging straight at him, and broke right. Forsyth struck the second rider in the face with the broken shaft of his spear, snapping his head around and leaving his face smashed and red, then was gone in a green blur. The rider fell limply forward on his still-galloping horse, then the impact of its hooves threw him over its left side and it dragged him along the ground by the stirrups, slowing to a stop somewhere in the forest.

 

Lukas began to slow his horse, but heard the pounding of two horses’ hooves; one out towards the edge of the wood, one headed directly away from him.

 

_Forsyth abandoned the chase to aid me. A poor prioritization, if kind._

 

Lukas brought his horse to a gallop in pursuit of the last Arthegnii man, weaving between trees to try and keep on his tail. The trees thinned as he rode and he could hear hoofbeats, but Lukas still couldn’t place the rider. Lukas spotted a rider through the trees skirting around the edge of the wood, crossing from left to right, but before he could prepare to attack he caught a glimpse of the rider’s blue coat - it had to be Clement.

 

Lukas broke out of the trees and pulled up alongside the archer, who pointed the Arthegnii rider out to him, headed for the road as quickly as his horse would carry him, unencumbered by armor and pulling away from the two.

 

“Shoot him down!” Lukas called out to Clement, who loosed an arrow far wide of the barbarian, then missed a second time, with the rider still slipping away. The man reached the road and sped up further on the flattened dirt, headed east, back towards his own army.

 

Clement slowed to a halt for one last try, and Lukas tore past him. The rider was just at the edge of bowshot when Clement loosed his arrow. Lukas caught a look at the dark arrow as it passed over the light sky, reaching its apex, then dropping, plummeting down - and passing just over the rider’s head, who passed out of sight beyond the trees a second later. Lukas gave up the chase, slowing his horse and turning back around.

 

He had known men who would’ve made that shot with ease, or, for that matter, either of the others. But Clement wasn’t a knight raised fighting with lance and sword, or a tested soldier from the regular army. He was a replacement, fresh out of training to replace casualties, and he knew it too.

 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Clement said when Lukas reached him. Clement was struggling to look him in the eye, and gripped his bow tight.

“Don’t agonize over it, Clement. You are inexperienced, not negligent or careless.”

Clement looked up at him and nodded, seeming soothed some amount. “Thank you, sir.”

“Now, speaking of 'negligent and careless'…”

 

\---

 

“Forsyth!” Lukas shouted, as they neared him. He had collected the horses of the two dead Arthegnii and was dismounted, facing their direction, but was mentally somewhere else entirely, examining something at the base of the tree they had caught the Arthegnii working at. Lukas rode around to Forsyth’s side.

 

He was sitting in the dirt by the bundles, delicately holding one of a hundred broken arrows in both hands. Lukas put it together in a second, and waved Clement come with him. “Let’s give Sir Forsyth a minute,” he said quietly.

 

They rod for a few seconds to get some distance from Forsyth. “Why would they have cached a handful of bundle of arrows? They didn’t lack for cart space, if the wagons they abandoned are any indicator,” Lukas mused.

 

Clement thought on it for a second, until his gaze drifted up into the trees, and he stopped. “Not a _single_ handful, sir,” he said.

 

_Of course._

 

Lukas looked up, but he knew it before he saw. The tree they were under had three bundles suspended from sturdy branches, each filled with arrows tied up together. The one to their left had four, the next two, and as far as Lukas could tell, every tree in the vicinity was filled with arrow stores. Everything fell into place, and Lukas allowed himself a chuckle.

 

“It seems the barbarians forgot their ammunition stores, Clement. Then, finding their wagons light, they abandoned some, then realized their error and sent men back to reclaim them. Then we arrived. Or, so I would theorize.”

“That seems likely, sir. But I am not sure we can be certain; more may be dispatched soon.”

“Correct, Clement. Come with me.”

 

Lukas turned his horse and rode back quickly. “Forsyth!” he shouted. The man jolted up and shot to his feet, but didn’t let go of the arrow. “The Arthegnii have stored their ammunition in this forest, but the last rider escaped us. They may have reinforcements coming. We would do best to destroy their supplies, then leave while we are able.”

“How will we, sir?” asked Clement.

 

Lukas reached for his belt, and pulled up his firestarter, then pointed it away from himself and gave the igniter a stroke, spewing out a cloud of sparks. “I imagine this shall suffice.” Lukas dismounted, then gestured to the nearest tree. “Help me pile up kindling, so that we may set it alight and be off. What came of the two riders you struck?” Lukas asked Forsyth.

 

Forsyth was working on securing the broken arrow in his saddlebags, and was silent for a few seconds before he turned around, his expression angered. He shrugged dismissively. “They can burn.”

Lukas felt inclined to agree. Finding and finishing off the Arthegnii was an unnecessary chore when time was not in abundance. Moreover, he wasn’t moved to much in the way of pity. Lukas’ readings on the north had described the Rigelians as harsh, brutal, and with little regard for life; yet the Arthegnii were the only thing worse, in reality more animal than man. The trail of butchery their army had left in its wake was a sound confirmation. But Lukas doubted Forsyth had put so much thought into it - to him, the Arthegnii worshipped Duma, and deserved death for it, the more brutal the better.

 

Lukas understood why Forsyth felt the way he did, and would have shared his anger were it possible. He wished it were possible. When Lukas killed men all he felt was his spearhead tearing through flesh, or his hammer crushing bone; it didn’t seem much different from anything else he did. It was as unremarkable as tying his bootlaces. Lukas wanted to match Forsyth's passions for something. Anything. What would it take of him?

 

He had some idea.

 

“Very well, Forsyth. Help me ready the fire.”  


 

\---  
  


 

After two weeks in the saddle, Clair’s squadron was done their survey of the east

 

The Rigelian army’s encampment came into sight, at long last, in the early evening, as the light dimmed. Finding them had been no mean feat. Unlike the Arthegnii, who left a wake of torched villages streaming smoke into the sky, the imperial field army typically kept a lower profile in in their movements. Clair had eventually found them by navigating directly away from the barbarian army towards an enormous fire to the west, far away enough so that only the Rigelian army could have lit it, whatever their reasons may have been.

 

Seeing the dull campfires coming over the horizon left her with a good feeling, though the disparity in size still worried her; the imperial camp’s footprint was half of the savages’, put generously. It was getting late in the day, and they were soon to give up the search and build a camp of their own; Clair appreciated that the Rigelian stewards would have tents and food prepared for them in advance. She spotted that they had even set out a landing strip for them in the camp’s center, with a long and flat zone of clear ground for a steady descent. At its far end, Clair spotted a signalling light: it flashed twice at her, then gave a long interval, then flashed twice again, repeating to make sure she spotted it. _Clear to land_ , it meant. She stuck her right hand up, fingers and palm flat and perpendicular to her path of flight, then lowered it, the signal indicating ‘ _Clear to land, in behind me,’_ to her fellow riders. Clair did a final once-over of her kit, tapping her harness, bow case, and quiver, finding all secure. Satisfied, she leaned forward, and her pegasus dove.

 

They picked up speed and the wind whipped against her face, the cold cutting at her exposed face - she had not missed Rigel’s weather since leaving it at the war’s end. At forty feet they levelled out, bled speed, and came in for the landing, slowing to a gallop’s pace as they passed over the last tents before the runway. She touched down gracefully, and her pegasus slowed to a gentle canter by the middle of the field, then to a trot, and then a walk. Clair checked over her shoulder, finding the others descending one-by-one. Zofian grooms rushed over to help her from her haness, followed by a Rigelian aide who had been waiting, but as Clair guessed, not speaking, with the grooms.

 

“Greetings!” she said, “How may I address you? Goodman…”

“Sir Clair. I trust you have prepared your report for Emperor Albein,” he said.

 

_How friendly._

 

“That would be correct,” she said.

“This way.”

 

Clair hopped down from her horse and passed her helmet to one of the grooms, following along with the man.

 

“How is Alm?” Clair tried.

“Busy. Emperor Albein works long in the defense of the empire.”

 

“CLAIR! STOP AT ONCE!” sounded the sharp voice of Lady Helen, the senior pegasus knight on the expedition. Clair snapped to a halt and turned toward Helen. She was short, harsh, and stick-thin; some of the younger sisters called her Helen-Horsehead when she wasn’t present, alluding to her far-apart, bulging eyes, but Clair had long thought better of it.

 

“Clair! Is your report ready for General Alm?”

The Rigelian aide stepped in. “It is. I am bringing her to speak with _Emperor Albein_ this instant.”

Helen scowled at him, then looked past to Clair.

“It is just as the kind man said,” Clair offered. “I can summarize our findings for you after I see Alm.”

“Very well,” said Helen.

 

She looked Clair head-to-toe, then reached over and pinched her thigh, testing how much flesh rolled between her fingers. “Good. You’ve lost weight. Those damned pegasi can only carry so much, can’t they?”

“Yes, Lady Helen.”

“Now go!”

 

The Rigelian coolly turned on the spot and strode away; Clair matched his brisk pace away from Helen, who stalked off to greet the rest of the squadron. Clair didn’t feel like speaking anymore, and he offered nothing, so they walked in silence until they reached Alm’s tent.

 

Alm sat at the table’s head, on the far end from Clair’s entranceway. To his left sat her brother, then Sir Lukas and Sir Forsyth, then a handful of other Zofian knights down the rest of the table - two of Alm’s village friends were among them. Across the table were the Rigelians; she recognized General Ezekiel, and a few others Alm had defeated in the war, but the rest were strangers. Alm held the meeting well - in fact, he had become quite the man. It was in his blood; a dark, neat beard and a tidy haircut were all that was needed to bring it out.

 

“Emperor Albein, sir,” said the aide, “Sir Clair has arrived back from her patrol.”

“Thank you, Marlow,” Alm said. The aide saluted and slunk out of the tent, and Alm looked at her, his expression regal.

 

“A most fortuitous arrival, you have made, upon this majestic autumn day, _Sir_ Clair,” Alm said.

Clair chuckled, and looked to the confused Rigelians. In Zofia, female knights used ‘lady’, whereas all Rigelian knights used ‘sir’.  “I see one of you has taken it upon himself to teach the young emperor to read. Truly a brave and commendable undertaking!”

“I became a man of letters a great eon before donning the imperial crown of Rigel, sweet Lady Clair. My meritorious band of companions had no hand in it.”

“ _Meritorious_! Such a long word for the young man. Your tuition was done most excellently.”

Alm’s deadpan expression crumbled, and he broke into a chuckle. “The young man can’t keep up with you. How are you doing, Clair?”

Clair sensed some impatience, from both sides of the table. “All the better, now my patrol is concluded. I have a report you would wish to hear.”

“Right, let’s get straight to it. Come around here,” Alm said, indicating to the map spread before him and those nearest. Clair circled around the Zofian end of the table, giving her brother and Lukas a quick smile before reaching Alm’s side. He stood to lean over the map, showing the broad outline of the southeast empire.

 

Rigel wasn’t the empire it had once been. Like Zofia, it used to cover the entire continent east to west, but in the last century, the declining climate had left to the abandonment of the eastern provinces. East of the mountains, Zofia had turned to desert, while the Rigelian lands across the inlet had turned into a toxic, frozen marsh - the Deadlands - in which only the Arthegnii barbarians, and various monsters could survive in. Every few decades an Arthegnii king would grow strong enough to beat the other tribes into submission and direct their assaults against the remainder of the empire - this new King Zekstriss was just the most recent of many; his own father led the Arthegnii in their last wars with the empire, dying to Rudolf’s lance.

 

Clair laid out several weeks’ worth of observations. “We are presently situated here,” Clair said, pointing to a spot northwest of Fear Mountain, “and the Arthegnii camp is here,” she said, pointing nearby, “three days’ march east of our position. It is hard to give an adequate estimate of their forces; their camps are disorganized and sprawling, and they march less as an army and more in a number of separate units. I would guess between twenty and thirty thousand.”

 

That didn’t cause shock, at least, among those present, but instead they seemed to take it in with uneasy acceptance. “Then they outnumber us by at least two-to-one,” Alm said. He seemed to be weighing the unfortunate news, finding the light rather than falling into despaid. “Our cavalry will be far stronger than theirs, and they won’t have much to shoot at us. Thank Lukas for that.”

 

Clair had noticed that - in the war, nearly every patrol saw some ambitious Rigelian archer who tried to pot himself a pegasus knight - but in the last weeks she hadn’t had a single arrow loosed at her. She chuckled, “What did Lukas do with their bows? Did he sneak into their camp and break every last one?” she asked.

Alm chuckled softly. “Close enough. They left their arrows stashed in a forest, so Lukas burned the whole thing down.”

 

_So that would explain the fire. Lukas has the oddest ideas._

 

Alm grew serious again, and redirected the conversation back to the vital points. “So, we know they’re moving east. But where in particular?”

“They are retreating northeast to the narrow points of the inlet, where they have constructed pontoon bridges. Two have been built, some distance apart from one another. One connects to the northern road the Arthegnii are following, while the other connects to the southern road you have been marching on.”

 

“That’s right. We’ve mostly been shadowing them, trying to catch up and figure out their numbers. Dammit. They never built bridges in the past... at this rate they’ll slip away before we can catch them. Again,” Alm muttered, with a deep frown and clenched fists.

“Not necessarily,” Clair said.

Alm perked up immediately. “How? Let’s hear it.”

“We made contact with a detachment of your garrison troops, far east of either army.”

Alm raised an eyebrow. “We haven’t been able to find any that hadn’t retreated, or been destroyed outright. What condition are they in?”

“Truly, lovely men, with such valor and… variety of phrases for the female anatomy. Regardless! By the northern crossing, there remains a fortified town holding out against them, with a store of blasting powder. The bridges are lightly held, and the men are hidden and ready to move against either bridge if we provide assistance and pass along the order from you.”

 

Alm stared into the map. “That’s Relastan - it’s walled, with enough of a garrison to hold out for some time, but we’d assumed the Arthegnii sacked it. We must march to relieve it if they haven’t. Magnus, how many days’ march are we from the crossing points?”

One of the generals Clair recognized spoke up. “At standard march, ten for us. Eight for the Arthegnii.”

“And do the roads join at any point?”

“We flew over their host on our return; the Arthegnii are presently encamped at the final crossroads. Beyond it, the roads separate, and the forest grows far too dense to move an army through. They could certainly not bring their wagons and prisoners.”

 

Alm gained the faintest hint of a smile. “I think I’ve got a plan. Two days from now, we send a group of pegasus riders to meet the garrison troops. They’ll destroy whichever bridge the barbarians move to cross. We follow them down the road until they’ve got nowhere to run. Any thoughts?”

General Ezekiel had a hand resting on the table, and silently raised a single finger before speaking.. “What shall the order of march be?”

“Your will lead with the Rigelian cavalry, followed by the field army’s infantry, then the Zofian knights,” Alm directed. “Sorry, Clive, but they know the grounds better than your men.”

Clive smiled. “No offense is taken, Alm. We are only glad to assist our friends.”

“Thanks, Clive. It means a lot,” Alm said, then glanced over at General Ezekiel.

“The… gesture is appreciated,” he said, upon the prompting.

“Thank you, General Ezekiel. I speak for all of Zofia when I say we look forward eagerly to working with Rigel in the future, even beyond the resolution of our present crisis.”

General Magnus cut in for Ezekiel, sparing him from speaking again. “The sentiment is matched,” he said.

After a second of silence, Alm finally spoke, out to the whole table “I thank you for being here today. I’ve lived in both Zofia and Rigel, and I’ve come to understand more unites the two nations than divides them - and we must stand as one against the Arthegnii, or we will be washed away. But our cause is just. If we all play our parts, then our victory is assured.”

Alm rose to his full height, looked over the map of Rigel with a small smile. “I believe in all of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I think my formatting has drifted - chapter 1 had bigger spaces between dialogue lines, while here I tend to just end the line, and leave the spaces for between blocks of dialogue, and regular paragraphs. Not sure which is better, and am open to opinions.
> 
> 2\. A few worldbuilding flops on my part in this chapter:  
> \- The trees Lukas and Forsyth were riding through match up much better with the sort of tree that grows upwards, then has branches that spread out (I don't even know the term for them), than they do with the sort of pine trees I think would likely be growing in a climate as cold as Rigel’s. But, fuck it, I’m not a biologist.  
> \- Arrows could be picked up by the people they were shot at and sent back at the guys shooting at them in the first place. I think a bundle of them would probably hold up better to a fall from a tree than I wrote them doing here. But, fuck it (again), I needed that scene and I wasn't about to let the structural integrity of an arrow stop me.
> 
>  
> 
> 3\. Alt text:  
> \- Lukas: “Everything in the world is exactly the same.”


	4. Two princes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In awe at the size of this chapter. Absolute unit.

After an hour spent flying circles over Relastan, squinting at the Arthegnii positions and hoping they wouldn’t be shot down by a lucky archer, Alm was thankful to land back in camp, where Magnus lay waiting.

 

He approached Alm and Clair. “Emperor Albein, sir, I trust your reconnaissance was productive. I’ve a matter to bring to your attention.”

 

“Thanks, Magnus. What is it?”

 

The general looked at Clair, then back to Alm. “It is sensitive, sir.”

 

“Alright, then. I’ll see you later, Clair. If not…  stay safe tomorrow. I know you’ll do great.

 

“Thank you, Alm. Do not let the savages lay a finger upon him!” she shouted to Magnus, who gave the faintest of nods. Alm held Clair’s bony hips to steady himself as he dismounted, taking care not to jostle the pegasus’ wings and frighten it, then followed Magnus off, exchanging a wave with Clair.

 

“So, is there a problem I should know about?”  


Magnus waited until they were well out of earshot from Clair, and the lane was empty of traffic. “There were two desertions last night, line infantrymen from the central army who abandoned their watch and bolted west. A patrol cornered them within half an hour of their going missing. We have them in chains.”

 

_Huh._

 

“I assume they’re going to be hanged,” Alm said.

 

“Yes. As is standard punishment for cowardice.”

 

“Did they give any explanation for why they ran?” Alm asked.

 

“The one  was sobbing and said she thought she would die in the battle. The other one refused to speak. If the patrol hadn’t outnumbered them five-to-one he may have tried to fight his way out.”

 

_Defiance. Why wouldn’t he try to speak in his own defense?_

 

“Take me to them. I’d like to speak.”

 

“As you will, Emperor Albein.” Magnus had long since become accustomed to odd requests, and began to lead Alm through the camp. He and the Rigelians still clung to ‘Albein’, however.

 

“What can you tell me about the two?”

 

“Their names are Steffen and Heloise. They each have served five years, veterans of the southern campaign. Their unit was destroyed in the battle at the border, and the two were captured, but paroled by the Zofians shortly thereafter. They re-enlisted after the war’s conclusion, and have spent their time since in garrison duty at the capital.”

 

“So they’re not fresh recruits? That’s odd,” Alm said. “I would’ve expected they’d be willing to fight in battle a second time, if they’ve already fought once. Huh… Well, I guess the first didn’t go so great for them.”

 

They turned a corner, and Magnus gestured toward a tent surrounded by a handful of soldiers. The Rigelian infantry were well-equipped, better than their Zofian counterparts, armed with a shortsword, shield, and throwing spear, wearing helmets, gauntlets, and mail shirts, some men owning additional plate armor. Safe behind the camp palisades, the guards just wore their coats and hats, and focused on keeping warm by a fire. They snapped to attention at Alm’s approach, jumping to their feet, withdrawing hands from pockets to avoid a scolding from Magnus, and standing in a ready position.

 

“At ease,” Alm called ahead. They relaxed.

 

Alm felt Magnus’ stare, the one he used when he had an opinion, but didn’t want to volunteer it. “Say it, Magnus,” Alm said.

 

“I had only told you of this to bring it to your attention, my lord. It is far below your position to deal with the manner in person. If you just order it, I can have the two hanged, and you can go get warm, and ready for the battle on the morrow.”

 

“That’s kind of you, Magnus. But I like to handle some things in person. I want to see what’s up with these two - if they were willing to face battle once, then why not now?”

 

“Very well,” Magnus said, resigned to being overruled yet again.

 

They approached the tent, and the guard’s leader stepped over to meet them.

 

“I’d like to speak with the two,” Alm said. “Give me a few minutes alone with them.”The corporal nodded, and shouted at the men at the fire, who brought a lantern over to Alm, then pulled open the tent flap.

 

Inside sat a man and a woman huddled together and shivering, wearing just their uniform clothes in the frigid, dark tent. Alm stepped into the opening, and his shadow fell over them; the woman put her head down and started crying, while the man scowled up at Alm. Alm walked in and sat down cross-legged a few feet from them, setting the lantern in the middle, for the two to enjoy the warmth.

 

“Steffen and Heloise?”

 

Steffen gave a faint nod, Heloise rocked back and forth.

 

“Leave us,” Alm said, and the tent swung shut, Magnus and the corporal stepping away.

 

“Not keeping the guards around, _sir?_ ” Steffen said, meaning no respect whatsoever.

 

“I don’t need men to protect me.”

 

Steffen scoffed.

 

“I guess there’s not much point in fucking around here. Why’d you ditch your guard post?” Alm asked. “You could’ve gotten someone killed by infiltrators.”

 

“Some difference it’ll make. They could get their throat slit in the night, or get an Arthegnii’s axe through the skull tomorrow while they’re begging for his mercy. It’s all the same in the end,” Steffen said.

 

“That’s rather pessimistic,” Alm said. “I can’t deny they outnumber us. But they also outnumbered Emperor Rudolf in every battle he fought.”

 

“And your Zofians outnumbered us, when we tried to stop your invasion at the southern border,” Steffen said, as though he was accusing Alm of something. “And you’re not Emperor Rudolf.”

 

That pricked at Alm a bit. _This isn’t the argument we want to be having._

 

“Do you think we’re all going to die tomorrow?” he asked.

 

Heloise was stiff, pressing her face against her knees, but choked on a sob.

 

“Where will you be fighting?” Steffen hissed.

 

“I’ll be leading the Rigelian cavalry, on the left wing,” Alm said. “Your infantry will hold the center, the Zofians the right, and we’ll--”

 

“NO! Not _all_ of us, sir!” Heloise screamed, snapping up and glaring at Alm. “You and your knights will lunge in to make the first blow as you always do, and be the first ones away when the battle goes sour. _We_ will get left behind to be cut down as we run, leaving you and the fine cavalry all the more time to save yourselves.” She stared at him afterwards, her eyes red and puffy.

 

Alm didn't say anything for a moment, the nodded and sighed. “You two lost a lot of friends at the border, didn’t you?”

 

They didn’t speak. Heloise put her head back down against her knees, clutching around her legs, shivering. Steffen looked away and nodded.

 

“Leaves you feeling empty, right? Like you’ve got nothing left, there’s no point to anything with them gone. Just a big hole you can never really fill.”

 

“You too, huh?” Steffen asked.

 

“Not at the border, but… yeah.”

 

They sat silently for half a minute, remembering, nobody able to come up with something to say. Alm broke the silence.

 

“How many people see it your way in the infantry?”

 

“Most, in our unit. We got thrown together from the remnants of the army Prince Berkut trashed. There’s plenty others like us who don’t fancy the odds.”

 

“What would you think if I fought among you tomorrow?”

 

Steffen gave a grim chuckle. “I’ll be hanging, all the same. The others would be glad to have you there to die with them. And you will.”

 

Alm grinned. “Sounds like a plan, then. Magnus!” Alm shouted, no urgency in his voice. Footsteps approached, then the flap swung open, the light blinding Alm for a second.

 

“Yes, Emperor Albein?”

 

“I’m done here. These idiots got lost on the way to the latrines last night. Return their equipment and send them back to their unit.”

 

Steffen and Heloise gasped, while Magnus sighed. “Is that true, Emperor Albein?”

 

“Of course it is. They’re very sorry for wasting everyone’s time.”

 

Magnus rolled his eyes. “I see it now.” He ducked away from the open flap and shouted at the guards to get the confiscated weapons and armor.

 

Alm stood up and stretched, and helped the two up, their limbs stiff and frozen up after hours in the dark tent.

 

“Sir…. why are you doing this for us?” Steffen asked.

 

“Because I believe in you. And, if you keep your mouths shut, nobody’s going to know.”

 

Alm turned to leave, when Heloise spoke.

 

“What can we do to repay you?”

 

Alm looked back over his shoulder. “Give them hell tomorrow.”

  
  


\---

  
  


The fields outside Relastan were cold and dark, despite that it was just the early afternoon; the clear weather of the previous week hadn’t lasted, and a storm was blowing up from the southwest, behind the Rigelian army’s position. The wind favored them, but the Arthegnii had too few arrows, and Alm’s army too few archers, for it to make a great difference. Just outside of Relastan were a half-dozen burnt-out siege engines - a few primitive scaling ladders, the semblance of a siege tower, and a pair of rams that the barbarians had cobbled together - that had been destroyed in attempts at the walls prior to Alm’s arrival at the town. The Arthegnii had pulled their position back and abandoned their ditches in the field just outside the town, and instead formed up on a hill to the town’s northeast. At the top of the hill, their infantry stood in one long, deep line, facing southwest down the hill towards the Rigelian approach. Their left flank was guarded by rough ground, to which they had added a wall of wagons and a few trenches to obfuscate any attempt at a flanking attack. On their right, in the flatter ground, the Arthegnii cavalry were deployed where they had space to maneuver.

 

The best among the Arthegnii cavalry wore mail armor, with helmets, shields, and spears, with a smattering of archers and javelin-throwers among them. They were outmatched - vastly - by General Ezekiels’ cavalry; the first line of lighter horse archers, the second of heavy knights, in plate armor riding barded destriers. On Alm’s right, he had placed the Zofian knights, who were easily a match for their Rigelian counterparts, to charge against the Arthegnii foot.

 

That left the center, where Alm had the least confidence. The Rigelian infantry were solid, and well-equipped, but Alm feared they wouldn’t hold up long enough for the cavalry to break the Arthegnii flanks. So he put them in two lines - the first as long as the Arthegnii center, but just four men deep, barely half that of the savages - with a thinner reserve directly behind, commanded by Magnus. Alm would lead the first division.

 

They departed from their camp, marching out at midday in a column and reaching the field an hour later. The full contingent of pegasus knights circled overhead, a handful of them carrying fearsome pots of napthem - the Deliverance leadership had voted unanimously not to use them in the war against Rigel, but now Alm looked forward to seeing them in action against the barbarians. They reached the field, and the lines took shape. It was painstaking, somewhat disturbing, waiting for the infantry to muddle their way from the marching column into their battle line, but the Arthegnii didn’t dare charge them while they maneuvered, or Alm’s knights would have wheeled and charged into their flanks as soon as they left the hill’s safety.

 

Alm sat mounted between the two infantry lines, when, one-by-one, the units began sounding off to signal they were in position, chanting a battle cry and their trumpeters blowing a signal. When all were ready, Alm shut his eyes for a moment. He had never prayed to the gods once in his life - Alm hadn’t cared for them even before they took Celica from him - but he took a second to compose himself. To think peaceful thoughts, just for a moment, and clear his mind. But only a second.

 

 _Eight-hundred and forty-nine._ The latest count popped into his mind, and he opened his eyes. _The Arthegnii won’t kill themselves, won’t they?_

 

“Begin the attack!” Alm shouted. The musicians near him gave the signal, beginning their drum beat, then after a count of four blowing a rhythm on their trumpets.

 

The first infantry line stepped forward, and advanced twenty paces until they were within bowshot of the Arthegnii; up and down the line, the horse archers on either flank did the same. The archers nocked, drew back their bowstrings, and loosed a volley. Their arrows streaked up into the sky, barely visible against the clouds, then dropped back down and plunged into the Arthegnii infantry, then a second volley, and a third, and more following just after. Alm peered into his spyglass. The Arthegnii spearmen were packing tightly together, making their shieldwall more dense and improving their overlapping coverage, getting hammered on by the storm of arrows. They were poorly-armored, but their shields held up, and few men fell.

 

At the same time as the archers beginning their attack, the pegasus knights circling overhead formed into several columns, breaking off from the army and flying north. After a minute they turned about and approached the Arthegnii from their right and dove. They arced down and dropped, picking up speed until they were just a hundred feet off the ground, opening up the whistles built onto their saddles so that they screamed, like two hundred banshees plunging at the unprotected infantry. They broke out of their dive, and began shooting arrows into the battered spearmen, each rider dipping down, loosing once or twice, and then picking back up for her sisters to take her place. The contingent strafed over the whole of the line, and Alm checked again. Tighter, tighter they grew every second.

 

A dozen remaining pegasus knights, well-spaced out from each other, came into Alm’s view, flying well behind their sisters - they were the napthem carriers, and were weighed-down far heavier than the others, each with two large sealed pots roped to their saddles. They approached slowly, sluggishly, like they could barely stay aloft, until they were in the middle of the Arthegnii; they released the napthem pots and soared away, with the containers dropping down barely visible, like tiny black specks that tumbled and wobbled through the air, landing and smashing in the midst of the infantry, just to the left of the line’s center.

 

For an long half-second nothing happened, then it came - a blinding flash of white light erupting from the top of the hill and blinding Alm, who had only just set the spyglass aside. He squinted at the flash, which turned into a blazing orange cloud of burning gases and liquid, and spinning currents of black smoke. It was silent at first, with just the fiery wave spreading along the Arthegnii line, rolling over the tight-packed men. Then, at once, came the _whoosh_ of the eruptions, a wave of warm air that came down the hill and washed over them, and the muted screams of the burning men on the hill. It gave the Rigelian infantry some heart to see them ablaze, and they began shouting and beating their shields against their knees in approval, raising some racket, and Alm cheered along.

 

Alm nudged Lukas with his elbow, laughing. “Our girls really cooked them.”

 

Lukas politely chuckled. “Most certainly,” he said, smiling insincerely.

“Try to enjoy something, Lukas, just once,” Alm joked. Lukas’ expression didn’t change, but Alm realized he’d hurt him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

 

“I know. You would best focus on more important things, Alm.”

 

Alm nodded and looked back through the spyglass, but could only see faint figures through the thick smog at the center of the Arthegnii line; burning men were running every direction in utter anarchy, with some trying to beat down the flames, or smother them on the ground, or sprinting for the river. One came into the clear with his helmet plume, shield, and cloak burning, scraping at his shield with an axe, only to set his hand ablaze as well, which Alm had to chuckle at. The archers didn’t let up, and continued raining arrows down on the disordered Arthegnii for several minutes, the napthem fires gradually burning lower, the smoke taking some time to dissipate.

 

On the right, Zofian trumpets sounded - Clive was moving on his own initiative. The Zofian knights shouted, and began to trot forward, the advance led by senior knights and their standard bearers holding blue and green banners above the rest of the knights, in groups of thirty. Not to be outdone, the Rigelian cavalry on the left began their own advance, against the Arthegnii horse, who sounded their horns and charged in response. When the Zofians had crossed half the distance they accelerated, and began picking up speed - the noise from their pounding hooves grew with their speed, before they broke into the final charge as they reached the base of the hill. They plunged forward at the Arthegnii infantry line at a breakneck pace, bearing down on the little men in the wall of spears… but made no contact. The line held firm, and the Zofians were not about to charge to their deaths on a solid wall of spears. They turned and rode back down the hill, to reform for a second charge.

 

_Damnit, Clive…_

 

On the left, the Rigelian and Arthegnii cavalry had closed with each other, and a chaotic fight had broken out; archers rode up and loosed arrows before turning away, while those with lances or swords closed and traded blows to unhorse each other, while the Rigelian knights held back from the skirmishing, readying for a decisive charge to break the Arthegnii. The men engaged had broken down into a chaotic mass, trying to stay with their units or rallying to a friendly banner; from Alm’s distance he had no clue which way the fighting would go, or how long it would take.

 

The Zofians launched another charge, and again were turned back; the center’s archer’s and pegasus riders rained arrows onto the Arthegnii foot atop the hill, but they showed no sign of breaking any time soon, and filled the gaps in the line as quickly as they were made. _And they’ve far more men than we’ve arrows. Damn. I’d known it would come to this._

 

Alm swung a leg over his horse and hopped down, passing the reins to a squire. “Arm me!” The rest of his retinue, Zofian and Rigelian knights together, dismounted, and armed themselves for a fight on foot. Alm’s squire handed him a javelin and his poleaxe; it was as tall as he was, with an axe, spearpoint, and spike, perfect for an the heavy fighting an armored man saw while afoot. They moved forward through the line infantry, settling in the front. Alm’s retinue were better-equipped than the standard infantry, with heavier full-plate armor that would lend them a much-needed advantage in their position at the center of the line. They would come under the harshest attack, and would have to act as an protective layer over the rest of the infantry. Just behind him, Sir Emma carried the imperial banner, the golden lion on crimson, the wind carrying it forward over Alm. Forsyth, in his greened harness, was on Alm’s left, with Lukas’ redded shape on his right, carefully carrying Duma’s Lance. The weapon was austere, in a word, just shorter than Alm’s weapon, with a simple spearpoint rather than an axe and spike. But the myths said it was crafted of the tooth of the first Emperor Rigel, the hair of Queen Zofia, and Duma’s own blood. Alm doubted all three counts, but couldn’t deny that the Lance was the finest he’d seen, with a razor-sharp point that could punch through anything. Lukas made good use of it.

When they had settled into place, Alm checked up and down, seeing all banners in place, the line straight. He stepped out a few paces ahead and waved them forward. “Advance!” he shouted; the trumpets took up the command.

 

 _“Doo-da-da-looooo!”_  they sounded, energetically, and the musicians began drumming. There was something primal in it, but Alm’s heart picked up at the thumping of the beat in his chest, taking energy from it. As one, the line began to move forward. Alm and the officers had to move up and down it, offering encouragement and bashing men into place to keep the line straight. The men were reluctant. Scared, even. Their trumpeters and drummers were loud, but as the noise of the Arthegnii chants and warhorns grew stronger and stronger as they neared the hill. Men looked to their sides, seeing the others as scared as them, waiting for the Arthegnii to come sweeping down over them; it was the last thing Alm wanted.  

 

“Come on,” Alm shouted to some frightened men, “the Zofians won’t do it for us!” He waved them forward, but they almost shrunk from him. It made sense.

 

_In the battle at the border it played out just the other way. I led the Zofians to charge down a hill and hack our way through these men. Advancing up one again can’t bring up any good memories for them. At this rate they’ll break before the first contact. The Arthegnii begin their charge, sweep through us, they run… ugly business for everyone without a horse. Which would just happen to include us._

 

The archers had moved up a dozen paces ahead of the main force, stopping to loose an arrow every few seconds, though the time spent moving had led their volume of shooting to slacken. Alm cried out for a halt when they were twenty yards from the base of the hill, and the men ground to a shaky stop as the trumpets blew. Officers ran frantically to bash the line into shape, but Alm stepped forward from the line, giving himself some space from the line. Just before he turned back to them, he heard an awful droning, all the Arthegnii horns blowing as one, and the chant reached a new volume. The Arthegnii mass began moving down the gentle hill, in uneven order and pace, some men running, others marching, some places not even moving as their fellows pulled ahead. The Rigelian archers streamed by Alm, passing through the lines to safety.

 

The Arthegnii chant became more clear. “--MA, DU-MA, DU-MA, DU-MA--!” they screamed, the low tones echoing behind their shields, with the War Father’s banners streaming in the air. Alm turned back towards the line. Men were shaking, some even edging back away from the charging barbarians. He felt something rising, in the back of his throat, some tightness. _Disgust. Anger. Hate._

 

“Why are we here?” Alm shouted at the men. None responded.

 

“Are we here to fall to our knees and beg for their mercy? Are we their slaves?”

 

“No!” cried Forsyth’s faint voice.

 

Alm waited, giving a pause to let it sink in.

 

“Are we going to stand by helpless as these savages burn our lands, sack our cities, and put our towns to the sword?”

 

“No!” shouted a handful of men.

 

“Are we going to give them our families in chains, our wives and daughters for their pleasure?”

 

“NO!” came the response, more men this time, their spirits rising, some beating their shields against their knees.

 

“We’ve spent half a year chasing them, and they’ve run from us every time. This is our chance! Will we squander it?”

 

 **“NO!”** cried every man near Alm, the whole army thumping their shields against their knees, the noise growing as loud as the charging Arthegnii. He thrust his hand up towards them.

 

“Are we going to let a single one of the savages live?”

 

 **“NO!”** men screamed, **“NO! NO! NO!”**

 

“Then come with me! Smash them down, break their lines, and drive them into the river! For Rigel and Valentia!” Alm cried, waving them forward, the drums hammering out their beat. The men surged forward as one line, and Alm joined them, the army shouting with one voice.

 

**“Rigel the unconquered! Death to King Zekstriss!”**

 

They marched up the hill chanting and screaming, the Arthegnii sprinting down towards them at full pace, in no semblance of order. When they were forty yards apart they quickened their pace, then at twenty Alm and all the Rigelians broke into a run. They came into range of their javelins; Alm slowed, drew his left arm back, and threw his at the first Arthegnii in his path, a tall man, in mail armor and a helmet, his round shield painted with Duma’s black tentacles reaching out from the metal boss at its center. Alm aimed high, and sent it; it slammed into the top of the shield and punched straight through in to the man’s face. He screamed and stumbled and fell, and was trampled over in a second, the Arthegnii charging too fast to avoid him, the other javelins slamming into the Arthegnii mass and staggering it, so that it seemed to stop for a second before pushing through the stricken men.

 

“Kill them all! Kill them all!” Alm screamed as he charged into contact, a warrior screaming back as they approached each other and lunged. The Arthegnii’s strike rang against Alm’s helmet and glanced away; Alm’s spearpoint hit him in the face, crushing and punching into bone with a _crunch_ Alm felt through the haft. They were moving too fast for the man to fall in time, and Alm charged straight into him with his shoulder, slamming the two of them into the next man back in the line, taking Alm past Lukas and Forsyth into the midst of the Arthegnii. Alm’s momentum sent the other two tumbling back and they collapsed in a heap before him, but Alm came face-to-face with half a dozen others, and they lunged at him with their spears, driving him back a step even as he waved his poleaxe around to parry. In the chaos a man had gotten in behind him, between Alm and Lukas - it would be dire if the gap widened. The Arthegnii would pour men in and widen it, breaching their line. Alm swung his right foot back and kicked the man in the rear of the knee, as the Arthegnii in front of him stabbed their spears at him, driving blunt force against his chest and left arm where they landed. The man Alm kicked lost his footing, and Alm thrust the buttspike of his poleaxe back at the downed man, getting him in the throat. Alm dropped back into his place by Lukas and Forsyth, both heavily pressured; Lukas was being beaten on by three Arthegnii, Forsyth two. It was hard keeping their spacing with Alm’s left-handedness, but Lukas had grown to accommodate, and even as they ate the hard spear strikes from the Arthegnii, they managed to hold.

 

The initial confusion of the clash began to subside, and neither side managed to force their way into the other’s formation, ending the chances at a quick collapse. They drew back from each other, caution replacing aggression, and the men thrust at each other with spearpoints, or for the Rigelian infantry, threw javelins and pressed in for sword strikes when finding an opening. The man in front of Alm was wealthy - likely a chieftain - and wore good armor. He pushed forward, sheltered behind his shield, just his shins, head and shoulder exposed, backed by several others following his calls.

 

“Lukas!” Alm shouted, and swung his axe down into the chieftain’s shield. It hacked through, all the way to the metal boss, and Alm dragged it down, Lukas lunging over and thrusting his lance straight through the chief’s face, crushing bone and sending the man to his knees. The men he had led forward faltered, and Alm charged into them, kneeing the chief in the face, then stomping down on his throat when he hit the ground, crushing his windpipe. Lukas and Forsyth pressed in with Alm into close quarters with the Arthegnii, other men nearby moving up alongside them. “Press them!” Alm shouted, fencing with two warriors and forcing them backwards bit-by-bit.

 

But the strain of fighting outnumbered and uphill grew, at least on the others; apart from Alm and Lukas the men nearby were slowing after a few minutes of intensively pressing the Arthegnii, who themselves only stiffened as the Rigelians spent themselves. They came to a halt, unable to push forward any longer. The Arthegnii dropped back a bit, and their lines opened somewhat, with new banners moving forward, fresh men pressing their way through the ranks. They were tougher men, better equipped, all in mail armor and helmets, whereas most of the Arthegnii were protected by little more than a shield and padded jack. Their shields and banners were elaborately decorated, with Duma painted in bright colors, rampant or with His wings extended, and many men wore wolf- or bearskins over their armor.

 

They took up place in the front of their formation, and with a cry, all charged. Alm instantly sensed their line being shoved back. “Hold, damnit, hold!” he shouted, “don’t give them a fucking inch!” Even that couldn’t stop the Arthegnii, and they began to slide backwards faster. Alm refused to budge even as Forsyth was forced back, and only Lukas could stand by him.

 

“The emperor, get to the emperor!” someone shouted, but Alm couldn’t tell if it were his own men coming to assist him, or the Arthegnii coming to overwhelm him. He held regardless, just from spite, trading jabs with four men, Lukas against three, and lunged forward into the warrior on his left, punching through his mail and tearing his guts free, when a hand reached and grabbed the haft of Alm’s poleaxe. He dragged it free with a grunt but two of the Arthegnii rushed him before he could bring it back on-line, and they grappled onto Alm, others piling in and grabbing him, chanting and screaming. Alm struggled and almost threw them off, but there were too many - five, seven, even ten - and he couldn’t free himself. He swore, frustration turning to dread as he twisted to throw them, just barely keeping to his feet, but he couldn’t move. They had him.

 

Alm heard screaming behind and all around him, only Lukas was near, and he was fighting for his life against as many as Alm. Through his visor he saw one Arthegnii struggling toward him. Like all of them his skin was tainted blue, his eyes like black spots of madness - heavy axe in hand, aiming a swing at Alm’s head. The Arthegnii drew the axe back, difficult in the press of so many men, and swung it down.

 

Something in Alm shifted, a small click.

 

Alm wrenched his left hand up into the axe’s path, dragging the men holding him with it, and the axe plunged into them, lodging in one man’s forearm. He screamed, Alm laughed, and felt the mens’ hold on him weakening. He jerked himself to the left, then to the right with all his strength and felt another man lose his grip in the violent motion, the rest barely able to hold him. _Weak. So weak._ Alm headbutted a man, smashing his nose with his steel helm, then reached to his right, and felt his fingers close around his dagger. He drew it, and plunged it forward into the eye of the man in front of him sending the man to the ground, adding another pained scream to a hundred deafening shouts of “Duma!” or “Rigel!” or “Zekstriss!” or “Albein!”, the ringing impact of metal on metal, and pounding drumbeats that Alm felt in his chest. The last two men holding Alm dropped back, not favoring their chances up-close, giving him space to draw the Kingsfang from its sheath at his right.

 

And still, they pressed forward. Lukas was fighting on against his men, and their section of the line had been driven back, with the Arthegnii pressing their way in between men in the formation, breaking through bit-by-bit. Few dared to face Alm and he cut down those who tried, but the Rigelians were losing ground under the heavy attack. Alm knocked aside spearpoints with his sword but couldn’t close enough to reach the Arthegni, and was pushed back with the line, and men near him started screaming in terror and backing up, too quickly for the line to flex and stretch to accomodate. One of Alm’s men fell with a spear blow to the face, then the man who pushed up to take his place was struck in the thigh and collapsed, others still pressing in over them. Forsyth was nowhere to be found, and the ordinary infantrymen were terrified in the face of the Arthegnii elite, cowering behind their shields, clumping together, and beginning to run as the Arthegnii pushed into them.

 

“Hold them! Hold them here!” Alm screamed, but still more men were turning or dropping down dead or wounded, the line beginning to collapse. _Fight to the end. Don’t die running._ Alm felt pounding footsteps and shouting behind him, getting closer. Then, a volley of javelins passed over Alm’s head, and rained down into the Arthegnii, punching through shields and pinning themselves into mail armor; a second later, a head-splitting whistle tore through the air, as dozens of pegasus riders strafed over, loosing arrows into the Arthegnii, dropping men left and right, throwing the nearly-victorious men into disarray. Alm took a snap-look over his shoulder. Red banners; Magnus’ reserve were bearing down upon him, screaming their battle cries as they ran.

 

“Now it’s our turn! Push through them!” Alm shouted, and charged, Lukas following him just after, always at Alm’s side. Alm barreled straight into a man and sent him tumbling backwards, then ran his sword through the next, charging into the space so others could follow.

 

Alm came face to face with the Arthegnii standard bearer. She was unarmored and had lost her helmet, leaving her face bare, and she snarled and hissed as they made eye contact. Alm brought the Kingsfang down into her cheek, tearing through flesh and bone, then again when she refused to fall. She teetered, sinking down but still gripping the standard, when a bright green flash tackled into her. Forsyth crushed her under his weight, but got a hold of the banner just as three Arthegnii warriors threw themselves on top of him and the girl. Both sides piled in over them in the sharp fight for the banner, Alm and Lukas stabbing at the top two men heaped onto Forsyth. Lukas rammed the Lance through one’s back, Alm rained blows down on another until they caught a glimpse of Forsyth’s green armor, buried and struggling in the heap. Lukas threw one of the men off, and two Rigelians pulled Forsyth free, dragging him to safety in their lines, battered, beaten, and banner in-tow.

 

Alm advanced into the wavering Arthegnii, and grabbed one by the shield, wrenching it out of the way and plunging his blade into the unprotected man’s side, throwing him to the ground, then charging into the next, cutting him down just as easily. They backed away, losing the will to fight, and Alm cut down a third, and forth, laughing all the while at the ease of it. The line evaporated before him, retreating steps turning into a constant backward pace, then a disorganized rout as they turned and fled, throwing down whatever they could to run faster.

 

“After them!” Alm screamed. “Don’t let them get away!”

 

Alm and his men broke into a sprint to keep up with the Arthegnii, and hounded them as they ran, chasing for several minutes, all the way back up against the hastily-constructed fort of wagons bound together, where the air still smelled of burning napthem and cooked flesh. They were cornered with no way to run, but mobbed and pushed at each other to try and force a way through, doomed by their own camp’s defences. The men at the outside of the pack turned towards Alm. The dropped their weapons and shields in the rout, leaving them defenceless.

 

They dropped to their knees and raised their hands to beg for mercy; Alm speared the first one he reached through the throat with the Kingsfang. His knights and Rigelians fell upon the Arthegnii without mercy, hacking them down and killing the armored ones with crushing hammer blows to the head or face. Alm lost count of how many he killed as he cut his way to the wagonfort’s wall.

 

A few individuals made it over, and Alm spotted one Arthegnii chieftain trying to scramble over. She was just about to clear the top; Alm left his sword planted in a man, jumped up and grabbed her by her left heel. Ahe kicked down at him to try to shake him off to no avail, and Alm dragged her back over the edge, pulling her down from the top and falling hard into the frozen dirt. She was stunned by the drop, and got her knife out a second before Alm planted his plated gauntlet in her face, throwing her reeling into the hard wagon wall, the knife falling from her hand. Alm grabbed her by her hair with his left hand, threading his fingers tight into the orange curls, and slammed her face-first into the nearest wagon’s corner edge. She screamed out in pain, struggling weakly as Alm dragged her helmet off, and then slammed her into the cart again, and again, and again. He lost focus for what seemed like a split second, but when he came to, the chieftain was limp and only standing because of Alm’s grip on her head, her face a bloody pulp. Alm tossed her down in the dirt, unmoving.

 

_How pathetic._

 

Alm stepped back from the wagonfort, recovered his sword, and glanced about to assess their position. Lukas stood to his back right, static, staring straight at him for a long few seconds. Alm couldn’t see Lukas’ face - they both had their visors down - but he made eye contact for a second before Lukas broke it and turned to move with the tide of their men. Gaps were left open between the wagons, which the luckier Arthegnii were in position to retreat into, and other officers were leading the Rigelian infantry to try and break through, to deal the final blow. Alm and Lukas were near the back of the crowd, and could only just see the fighting some fifteen yards away by peering overtop several dozen helmeted soldiers.

 

“Albein, godslayer!” boomed a voice from the wagonfort wall, which Alm just barely heard over the fighting’s din. He looked up. Standing on the wagon was an enormous - utterly enormous - man, easily over seven feet tall in height and broad in the shoulder. He wore fine, bloodied armor, mail with added steel plates, with a crowned helmet and light beard.

 

“King Zekstriss, we meet, at long last!” Alm shouted back up. Two more approached the side of the wagon - a helmeted Arthegnii warrior dragging a shirtless wretch of a man with him, who he shoved over the wagon’s siding, holding his head down against the wood, an axe against his throat.

 

“Withdraw your men! We’ve three thousand Rigelian hostages in our camp,” Zekstriss threatened. “And we’ll be done slaughtering the whole lot of them, long before you break through our walls!”

 

“Never!” Alm screamed. “Zekstriss, whatever harm you do that man I’ll do to you in equal measure. Release him and every other slave you’ve taken this year, and I’ll give you safe passage out of the empire. Refuse, and--”

 

Zekstriss swung his right hand down, and on signal his warrior struck the Rigelian with his axe, hacking into his throat and throwing blood everywhere near, the man screaming and gurgling as his throat filled with blood. The Arthegnii swung again, and a third time, and the Rigelian dropped behind the wagon’s side. The Arthegnii crouched down and came back up, waving the Rigelian’s head, the dead man’s face twisted into agony. _Have it your way, then, Zekstriss_.

 

“You animal! Zekstriss, quit hiding behind your men and walls. Stand and fight me like a man. Kill me, and the day is yours. Otherwise, all I have to do is wait, and you won’t live through the hour.”

 

“You animal! Stand and fight me like a man! If you’re as fearsome as you claim, try killing someone who can fight back! Kill me, and the day is yours. Otherwise, all I have to do is wait, and you won’t live through the hour.”

 

Zekstriss stared at him for a few seconds - weighing up his options, Alm knew - then shouted, “Come face me, Rigelian! I’ll cut you in half!” He had spent far too much time thinking for it to sound intimidating.

 

Lukas interposed himself between Alm and the wagonfort, pushing up his visor. “Alm, this is unwise. You said it yourself; have patience, and the men will bring you his head on their own. You have no reason to be overly hasty,” he cautioned.

 

“Every second the fighting lasts more of our men risk death, and I won’t risk that he takes his odds killing hostages in the meantime,” Alm responded, moving to get past Lukas, who grabbed him by the shoulders.

 

“Alm! Think, for just one second! I’ve been in his position before. This is entirely a bluff, he has nowhere to run! If he begins killing hostages he will not damage your position with the army, and will only buy himself a more brutal death at their hands.”

 

“I’m not taking that chance, Lukas.”

 

Alm shoved Lukas aside - the effort felt like moving a boulder the size of a house - and dashed to the wall, springing up and swinging a leg over the top. The few Arthegnii around him gaped in surprise at his quick ascent, then shuffled away to give space for him and Zekstriss. The wagon Alm was on had been built up on the outward side with wooden planks, giving more height to the wall and cover to the men holding it, and it was thick enough to stand on, giving Alm the best view of his surroundings. Lukas was shouting up at him from the ground outside, with the unengaged Rigelian infantry either throwing javelins at exposed defenders at the walls of other sections, watching, or shouting encouragement up at him. On the inside, the Arthegnii fought desperately to hold the five-yard gap between two wall sections, holding back Alm’s troops, but receiving a constant stream of javelins, arrows, and thrown rocks. Zekstriss stood three carts from Alm, about thirty five feet. Each cart was wide enough to maneuver, but not enough for one to pass the other by without being struck.

 

“You disgust me, Zekstriss. You slaughter the helpless and innocent, and call yourself a warrior? Now that you’ve come up against actual fighting men your army crumbles to pieces. I’ve seen ten year-old girls fight with more balls than you! You’re nothing!”

 

Zektriss scowled, and beat on his mailed chest with a fist, his warriors chanting. “I am Zekstriss, King of the Arthegnii, son of King Vikstress! Emperor Rudolf invaded our lands and killed my father, and you butchered our god Duma! I will avenge them now, and send your weak men running from the field! Your heathen empire will burn!” Zekstriss roared, wielding his axe around as he shouted.

“You should have stayed on your side of the inlet, both you and your father. I hope you’re ready to go meet him!” Alm shouted back, then lowered his visor, and dropped into a guard with the Kingsfang.

 

“For the War Father!” Zekstriss cried, and charged. He jumped over the gap to a cart nearer to Alm’s, and sprinted at full speed towards him.

 

“Rigel and Valentia!”

 

Alm countercharged Zekstriss, and the two met on the middle cart; Zekstriss swung his axe down at Alm’s head, and Alm countered, parrying and swinging at the king’s right arm. Zekstriss caught the blow on the haft of his greataxe, grunting from the impact, and dropped back a step. Alm corrected into his guard, and they paced sideways for a second, Alm closer to the inside edge, Zekstriss by the wall. Alm pressed forward and took a weak lunge at Zekstriss’ face, who took a retreating step rather than commit to parrying with his axe, held over his shoulder. With an axe, Zekstriss needed to be cautious; its blows were powerful and crushing, but an overcommitment would leave a long window for Alm to take advantage of. Alm knew, and hounded Zekstriss, trying to press closer, to draw out a swing. He feinted high and stabbed low, just narrowly missing Zekstriss’ left knee, but the king backed up again.

 

“Weak. No wonder you refused to face us all summer.”

 

Zekstriss grunted, and parried Alm’s next blow, but that only emboldened him. Alm swung at Zekstriss’ knee, then drew back, feinted high, and slashed down at Zekstriss’ stomach, cutting into the mail, but not deep enough to cause great harm. Zekstriss was wisening up, and knew he couldn’t win just through retreats and refusal to commit. He wound up for a swing at Alm, but dropped the effort just as he tensed and Alm readied to go on the defensive. Alm lunged at Zekstriss’ right, but he didn’t move to block or dodge, and swung his greataxe down. _Here it comes…_

 

Alm ran the Kingsfang through Zekstriss’ side and in the same second the axe crashed down on his left pauldron, nearly flooring him from the blunt force alone. Alm scrambled back, nearly dropping his sword from the pain, but as soon as he looked up he knew he got the better of the exchange. The axe had no chance of piercing plate armor, so while the strike certainly did hurt, Alm’s arm was in fine shape. But for Zekstriss, the Kingsfang had made messy work of his right shoulder, tearing through the mail armor, flesh, and bone like it was so much cloth. The king was groaning in pain and struggling to stand, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side, and his axe dropped down at his feet.

 

Alm laughed, loud, so all the Arthegnii watching could hear. “Is that all? It must be harder to kill men who fight back.” Alm planted the Kingsfang down into the wagon, punching deep enough into the wood to leave it standing up, then drew his rondel and dropped it on the floor. He clanged his fists together, raising into a fighting stance and advancing on Zekstriss, who stood up feebly. Zekstriss made one swing at Alm - heavy, slow, and overcommitted - and Alm dodged it without effort, punching Zekstriss in the throat so hard he tore the flesh, sending Zekstriss staggering back to the wagon’s side. Alm swept his legs out from under him, sending Zekstriss down on his back, and planted a knee on his chest, and grabbed him by the throat.

 

From up close, Alm got his first look at Zekstriss. Like the other Arthegnii, and Duma’s most devoted, his skin was a shade of blue, and his eyes pure black, but that didn’t interest Alm. Zekstriss wasn’t even really a grown man. His beard was thin and patchy, and he had zits and pimples spotted over his nose and forehead. He would’ve been begging for mercy, or his mother, if he was able to breathe.

 

 _He can’t be much older than seventeen. He’s just a kid, with no idea what he’s doing or why he’s doing it._ For a second, Alm felt some pity for him, before a red glow started to shine off Zekstriss’ face.

 

_He did this. He killed thousands, enslaved more. All for Duma… Men with their stomachs torn open, women and children dragged off in chains…_

 

_Celica._

 

Alm’s fist crashed down into Zekstriss’ face, smashing his nose with a satisfying crunch, then again and again, snapping his jaw, breaking teeth, tearing flesh. Alm pounded him with blow after blow, losing track of how many he’d given. Alm stopped as he began to tire, Zekstriss beaten beyond recognition. He stood and dragged Zekstriss along, pulling him to his knees where all the Arthegnii could watch. Alm leaned in to look him in the eyes; Zekstriss was still there, staring back at Alm, dazed and blank.

 

“You’re nothing,” Alm hissed. He rose, and put his hands around his head - one on his crushed jaw, one on the back of his skull - and began to twist. Zekstriss groaned in pain, harder as Alm twisted further, groping back at Alm with his useless hands. His head went as far as it would go, but Alm pulled harder, and Zekstriss’ spine snapped, then the flesh tore, and all resistance broke, sending Alm stumbling back, Zekstriss’ head in his hand.

 

He laughed, and held it high so the shocked barbarians could see. “All hail King Zekstriss of the Arthegnii!”

They gasped, and the area turned to chaos; at least half turned and ran at once, others looking about for guidance robbed of their king, a small core screaming out at Alm and advancing on the cart, weapons drawn. Alm smiled, throwing the head over to them, then recovering his sword and dagger, and jumping down to slay the rest of them. But as he jumped over the side of the wagon, he slipped in blood and caught his right foot on the rim of the cart, falling over the side and landing badly on his left. The ankle crunched, with a jolt of pain that shocked Alm out of the rush of killing Zekstriss. He pushed himself up, resting his back against the wagon, his left foot useless. Seven Arthegnii advanced towards him, spears and axes ready. Alm had no chance.

 

_Here I come, Celica._

 

Alm heard a whistling, coming from far to his left, growing by the second. An arrow slammed into the side of the lead Arthegnii’s head, punching straight through and sending his body to the ground, the others looking to their right in shock. Another arrow, then another and then a full torrent of dozens plunged into them, striking the remaining six dead in a second, as a column of pegasus riders screamed overhead. Half a dozen split off, circling in tight, decelerating rapidly and landing hard in the open area.

 

“Alm! Come to us, now!” screamed Clair’s recognizable voice. Alm staggered toward her as fast as he could, despite the pain of his broken ankle. He fell twice, but just reached her and grabbed her hand, dragging Clair half out of the saddle while he scrambled up behind her. The pegasus was having none of it, and tried to kick them, Clair only just keeping it calmed.

 

“Move, move, move!” screamed Lady Helen in her harsh voice, spurring her pegasus past them and loosing an arrow at a man Alm couldn’t see. Two of the sisters followed close behind Helen, then Clair managed to get herself and Alm moving, and they rode alongside one other knight, the last of six tailing them. Helen took them down the longest path they could find, and they rode faster and faster, to get the momentum they needed to take off. Overhead the other pegasus knights were circling dangerously low, in range of Arthegnii with javelins, drawing attention away from their group and shooting arrows down into the men trying to block their path. The Arthegnii jumped out from between tents on either side of their path, lunging forth with spears to try and strike one of the riders down, but they managed to keep moving, picking up speed.

The knight ahead of Alm and Clair gained much more speed than them, and the distance began them to grow - they were overweight. At feasts Helen would stalk about, slapping pieces of bread and anything sugary out of the hands of her knights, but it wasn’t without reason. Every ounce counted in flight… and Alm came in at over two hundred pounds in armor.

 

He immediately shook off both his gauntlets and tossed his helmet - Clair needed no prompting - and dropped anything he could. Rondel, gone, sword belt, gone; Clair’s helmet was already gone, and she dropped her quiver and bow. Their pegasus was struggling, giving labored, heavy flaps of its wings, before finally they picked up off the ground just a bit, a second before Alm would’ve thrown the Kingsfang. They lifted further, three feet off the ground, then five, when an Arthegnii stepped into the pathway forty feet ahead of them, shouted, and flung his javelin straight at them. Alm shoved Clair’s head to the left, and it passed an inch to the right of her face and over Alm’s arm, past them and clear, when he heard a _thunk_ and a groan from behind them.

 

Alm whipped around and saw the knight behind them slumped forward in her saddle, clutching at where the javelin had punched through her throat, blood tumbling down over her chest. Her pegasus lost focus and panicked, crashing back into the rider behind them, but Alm could do nothing. They gained height, and flew clear, Clair turning them about to fly back over their lines into safe territory. Their flight was unsteady, but Alm got a decent look of the battle:

 

The Arthegnii center had broken completely. Rigelian infantry were streaming into the camp, and the barbarians were fleeing in panicked retreat, running out the back and down to the river to try and cross, or being cornered and cut down by the Rigelian infantry. In a few places Alm could see spots where individual warriors were being encircled, mobbed, and torn to pieces by packs of vengeful slaves. Those that made it to the river were trying to brave a crossing, but they were having as little luck; the water flow was rapid and freezing, and the only remains of the bridge of boats were a few intact vessels scattered on either side of the crossing. Nonetheless, Arthegnii packed into them to try and make it across, and were strafed by pegasus riders shooting down onto them, leaving a half dozen boats floating adrift, their crews all wounded, dead, or too scared to move. Those who couldn’t make it aboard were trying to swim across, or were being pushed out over their heads by others arriving and swarming their way onto the beach, all either drowning, being trampled, or cut down by the Rigelian infantrymen hot on their heels.

 

The flanks were a similar story; on the left Ezekiel had broken the Arthegnii horse, who broke back through their own lines and fled, leaving their infantry to be encircled and charged by the Rigelian knights, then chased along the beach and cut down. On the right Clive had finally broken through, and the Zofians were riding the Arthegnii down just as the Rigelian knights did. All organized resistance had ended, and all that lay to be determined was the body count. _How well did we win?_

 

A sudden drop jolted Alm from his assessment of the battle; the pegasus’s flight was breaking down under Alm’s weight, and he could tell they were losing height. “We need to land!” Clair cried at him, but Alm could only faintly hear her through the wind.

 

“Put us down!” he shouted into her ear. She took them back into the center of the field, and they dropped quickly, the wind against them slowing them, but offering additional lift. Their pegasus was laboring hard, and its wingbeats slowed rapidly, too fast for comfort, when they suddenly dropped, losing six feet rapidly, evening out, before dropping again, Clair dug her heels in to spur her pegasus but it was dead tired from the exertion, just barely keeping its wings up as they came in hard - Alm threw the Kingsfang aside as they tumbled down - and the pegasus landed with a screech, legs breaking, falling over and throwing Alm, then Clair, out of the saddle. He hit the ground with a hard strike, then spun and rolled, tucking in his head as best he could, bouncing along the ground for at least fifty feet, spinning end over end.

 

Alm lay on his back facing up at the sky. After a few seconds, the Kingsfang flew over him at head height, spinning as it tumbled. His chest was agony, he struggled to breathe, and his head was pounding… but all his limbs were there and he hadn’t impaled himself. He struggled to sit up, almost vomited, and drew in his first solid breath. “Clair!” he croaked. No response. He looked around, trying to spot her - it was darkening already, and it took him some time to get his bearings, with his head spinning from the crash. He saw a thin, small body, laid out on its side in the dirt. Alm struggled to his feet and stumbled over to her, collapsing at her side, gripping her arm. “Clair! Are you--”

 

She swung around and punched him straight in the face, yelping in pain when her fist impacted his nose. Alm lost his balance and fell down next to her, and she jumped up onto his chest, putting what little weight she had into another blow against his left cheek. “You idiot! You imbecile!” she shouted, tears in her eyes, swinging again. Alm caught her tiny fist in his hand and threw her off, holding her down beneath him. She grappled with him, and kept shouting, “You clod! Halfwit, retarded, pissblooded boor! How could you?”

 

“Zekstriss had to die!”

 

“You could have just _waited_ for ten minutes and let your men do it!”

 

“He had hostages…” Alm trailed off. As his mind cleared, it occurred to him that the Arthegnii were barely holding their walls with what men they had. _How would Zektriss have spared any of them to start killing civilians?_ A second’s thought would’ve made that clear back at the camp, but Alm wouldn’t have cared even if he had taken the time.

 

Clair had stopped struggling, and just lay crying underneath him, her limbs tangled with Alm’s. He let go of her hands and shifted off of her, and she crawled away, struggling to her feet. “I’m sorry, Clair,” he said.

 

 _How empty._ _I wouldn’t have done a thing differently._

 

Covered in dirt and blood, Clair just walked away with tears streaming down her cheeks, over to her pegasus twenty yards away, a writhing pile of broken limbs.

  


\---

 

Late, when all immediate issues were addressed, Alm met his generals. With the Arthegnii routed and their camp captured, the decision was made to stay the night so as to secure the ground. Alm was glad to not have to ride the whole way back to their camp, but he kept quiet about that, though he felt that others shared the sentiment. The Arthegnii who managed to surrender traded places with their slaves; one group went into chains, and were in for a cold night, while the other was freed to pillage their captors’ possessions and feast by bonfires in celebration of liberty, vengeance, and Emperor Albein II. _“Albein, the Arthegn-slayer!”_ they shouted, drinking barbarian ale and pillaged Rigelian wine.

 

Alm claimed Zekstriss’ tent for himself, which turned out to be rather similar to his own. The Arthegnii king had been fond of Rigelian finery, and his tent was filled with a mismatched array of expensive items - old vintage wines, silk clothing too small for Zekstriss (and Alm), a half dozen mosaics, and a bust of Emperor Rigel II that had been left lying on its side in a corner. Zekstriss had also found room in his train for a large table with chairs, making his tent the ideal meeting room.

 

Alm sat at the head of the table, with Clive at his left and Zeke at his right. The two blond, tall men frowned at each other over the table. Zeke had done a find job in the battle, while Clive’s work had been… almost good.

 

“What was the count?” Alm asked.

 

Magnus consulted a note. “Ours: three-hundred and forty-seven killed. The Arthegnii: eleven-thousand counted killed and climbing, two thousand taken prisoner. Nearly three thousand Rigelian slaves have been liberated.”

 

Alm smiled. Trading Rigelians for Arthegnii was unacceptable at any rate of exchange, but those numbers did a great deal to even out the summer campaign. Those he failed could rest easy, knowing they had been avenged a dozen times over.

 

Magnus continued, “Three-hundred and twenty-eight major or minor Arthegnii chieftains have been found dead, or captured, not to mention the fate of King Zekstriss. The remainder of their host is leaderless and scattered over the river, fleeing into the Deadlands. The chance of another Arthegnii attack in the near future is minimal.”

 

“An excellent result, Albein. We have much to be proud of,” said Zeke.

 

Clive stared at them open-mouthed, and his Zofians seemed similarly unenthused. “I… see. It was a great victory, that much cannot be denied.”

 

“They’ve still got thousands of our people enslaved in the Deadlands,” Alm said. “We should try to move quickly and pursue them, to mop up the remainder of their army while we have the chance.”

 

That sat poorly with Clive. “I’m afraid we cannot aid you in that, Alm. King Conrad’s orders were quite specific. We are to give you full assistance on all operations inside of Rigel, but we are not to cross into the Deadlands.”

 

Alm ground his teeth. “Even while they drag away my people?”

 

Clive looked down. “Alm… you know it hurts me to see it happen. But there is only so much we can do, and you know that. Or at least you used to. Are we not going to speak about what happened?”

 

“What might that be?” Zeke asked.

 

“You know precisely what I mean, General Ezekiel. Alm’s… Alm, what was that?”

 

“I killed their king, Clive,” Alm said, in a dead tone. “They ran as fast as they could when I was done with him.”

 

“You charged alone into their camp for an honour duel with King Zekstriss, and then tore his head off! Are you mad? Alm, what in the world led you to do that?”

 

“Do you want me to just sit by as they destroy the empire, or is it alright with you if I try to stop them? Clive, your family’s safe off in Zofia, but the Arthegnii have turned Rigel into a hellscape for the last half year. Imagine them smashing little Anthiese’s head in front of you, then tearing off Mathilda’s dress--”

 

“I fought them just as you did! That couldn’t be further from what I meant, Alm, and you know that. Are you insane?”

 

“It is not your place, Sir Clive, to--” Ezekiel interjected, when Clive cut him off.

 

“You put yourself in blatant danger for no reason whatsoever! You don’t have an heir, because you haven’t bothered to marry, so if you throw your life away Rigel will be in a civil war within weeks. You have a responsibility to your people, Alm, and it goes beyond your own desires for--”

 

Alm’s fist slammed down into the table with a flash, shaking the heavy surface so hard it sent cups flying upward and papers scattering away, denting an inch into the oak, the wood audibly splintering.

 

“Do not lecture me about my _fucking_ responsibility. My responsibility is the reason we fought this battle! My responsibility is why I killed King Zekstriss, and Prince Berkut, and my own damned father! My responsibility is why Celica died drowning on her own blood while I held her unable to do a goddamned thing about it! She died hating me for it, the only person I-I…” Alm faltered.

 

But then something in his gut twisted, and he shot to his feet. “Get out! Get out, all of you!” Everyone in attendance hurried out of the tent, except Lukas, who stood and faced Alm from the other end of the table, his facial expression similar like that of a man being told what the weather was, or being served a dish he was indifferent toward.

 

When he didn’t leave, Alm sighed, sinking into his chair. “What is it, Lukas?”

 

“Alm, does it give you pleasure when you make evil men suffer?”

 

“Like nothing else does, Lukas.”

 

Lukas nodded. “I see. Alm, you should get some rest. I will make sure that anything that comes up is handled.”

 

“I… thanks, Lukas.” Alm wanted to argue, but Lukas had deflated him. Being angry with the man was impossible. It was like fighting with a boulder, leaving one feeling and looking like an idiot. Lukas smiled and ducked out of the tent, leaving Alm alone. The tent was cold and empty with everyone gone.

 

Alm wondered how Steffen and Heloise were. The casualties were few enough that it was almost certain that both survived. They’d done their part. The infantry had held, and Alm couldn’t have been prouder. He had never doubted them, and was only proved right. The Rigelians were a strong people, and they would endure. Alm didn’t care what he had to sacrifice if it meant protecting them.

 

Alm felt a sharp pain in the center of his left hand, so he took off his glove, and looked at the skin beneath. It was pale, clean, and unblemished. The mark glowed, a dark red.

 

_You’re still here. I killed you, but you’re not gone. You’re a part of me._

  
  
  
  


\---

  
  
  


 

 

 

_The mad emperor, drenched in blood, hacked down all who stood in his way. Man or woman, innocent or cruel, bold or craven, he cut and tore them apart with his blade, smiling madly, laughing as each one fell before him, his wide red eyes gleaming. He killed none outright; he left the fallen to suffer and bleed in the mud, trampled under his soldiers’ boots._

 

_His final kill was slumped, crumpled over on his knees as the life drained from him. But this time it was not enough for the emperor. He slipped his fingers around the fallen king’s neck, and twisted the man’s head free, laughing madly all the while as he lifted his prize high above his head to show his dark host. Blood spurted over his face, dripping down his chin and between his lips._

 

_“Kill them all! Let none escape!” he screamed to his men, letting out a gleeful cackle, before tossing the head aside and drawing his red blade again._

 

\---

  
  


She wheezed, air rushing into her lungs once more.

 

 _“Alm, no…”_ Celica gasped.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.
> 
> Regarding the story, I think we’re roughly halfway in, but as you can see, most of the setup is done and the real plot is now happening. If you felt like the story was spinning its wheels for the previous few chapters you weren’t totally wrong, but I felt like some setup was needed for the pacing to not seem off. It’s been a year in-universe (I think? I barely understand my own timeline), so the story’s feel should reflect that, I thought. Otherwise I’d just be saying “it’s been a year, Alm’s crazy now.” Show > tell.
> 
> This is basically the high point for butchery. There are still going to be fights in the future, but nothing this nasty, concentrated, or drawn-out. I fear that I overdid it, but if that’s the case, it won’t get this crazy again.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> It’s time for some remarks on h i s t o r i c a l w a r f a r e in media for nerds. 
> 
>  
> 
> 1\. Most movies/tv shows with battles basically represent it as two mobs clashing, and the heroes hacking down baddie after baddie until both mobs are 90% dead, and the losers run from the field. In reality, most infantry-infantry fights would be slow, intermittent, and involve remarkably few casualties until one side broke and routed, at which point they would be chased down and slaughtered. The real casualties would happen in this phase, which I tried to represent. Here the Arthegnii army suffered ~50% losses, which would be very high by most standards. They had the misfortune of having their backs to a very cold river, which helped secure their flanks but left nowhere to run when things broke down. 
> 
> 2\. Cavalry charges were more like a game of chicken than what’s shown in media, where the cavalry charge into the front of infantry and one side or the other gets impaled. In reality, the cavalry would turn around and reform for another charge if the infantry didn’t break, as Clive and the Zofians did here. They didn't have the chance to charge a flank, which meant there wasn't a huge amount they could do. 
> 
> 3\. Archery wouldn’t slaughter people machine gun-style like you see in Braveheart or in the Battle of the Bastards. It was far more useful for disrupting enemy formations, and baiting people into charging unwisely while whittling away at them.
> 
> 4\. The most glaring inaccuracy I made here was Alm’s duel with Zekstriss, which is entirely made up, and a little contrived. I can’t think of a single battle where the two commanders actually fought 1v1. 
> 
> 5\. As well, the different types of soldier are just thrown together kind of randomly. We’ve got Roman infantrymen, late medieval knights, and then just generic-ass barbarians all sorta going at it. I figured that most wouldn’t really care too much, and >0% of readers would basically skim the battle anyways.
> 
> 6\. There’s also the case of the pegasus riders dropping napthem (a made-up word on my part slapping things like “naft” and “napalm” together) on the Arthegnii, which also obviously never happened IRL due to lack of pegasi.
> 
> 7\. I never actually included mages in this, which is kind of odd in hindsight. I had some ideas for unstable Arthegnii mages who were just as likely to throw a fireball as they were to blow themselves up (40K-style magical mishaps are a great element in magical systems IMO), but they never really made their way in.
> 
> 8\. My main inspiration for this was the Battle of Strasbourg (357 AD). The Wikipedia page for it is surprisingly good. Some useful resources are Adrian Goldsworthy’s “In the Name of Rome”, John Keegan’s “The Face of Battle”, and Philip Sabin’s “The Face of Roman Battle”. I want to be one of those big-brain fanfic writers who are so smart they include footnotes with sources and sassy comments, but I don’t think sourcing specific things is a valuable use of time for the purposes of this.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading. I wouldn't do it if it wasn't for you guys.


	5. The Sacrifice and the Saint

 

 

_I’m sorry, Alm. I’m sorry I failed you. I’m sorry it had to be you._

 

Breathing in again was a brutal, agonizing effort, but Celica forced herself to do it. The room was spinning around her faster than she could process, everything just long streaks of dark color, and the feeling made her suck in the freezing air in a series of staggered, sharp bursts. The room was as cold as ice, but so was Celica, and she was completely numbed to it. She sat up, swinging her whirling body around until she felt some semblance of stability, when she felt it. At the back of her throat, the strongest stench of rotten decay that she had ever tasted in her life, like milk thoughtlessly left out in the sun for a week. Her stomach turned and Celica retched, vomiting cold, thick burning fluid over herself. It was red.

 

_Blood. My blood._

 

Celica realized the pale flesh, covered in her red-brown stomach contents, was hers, that she was naked.

 

_I died. This isn’t the afterlife, it can’t be, but I died. I failed, I was weak, I made Alm end it because I couldn’t…_

 

Celica started shaking, choking on sobs, her eyes too dry for tears. She felt a presence next to her, and then a great, thick red cloak closed itself around her, and a warm body embraced her, the man pulling her close, cradling her head against his hard chest. _Alm…_

 

“Be calmed, child.”

 

_Jedah._

 

Celica tried to say something, but she couldn’t control her tongue, or anything, her mouth and throat all so dry. “Do not strain yourself, Anthiese. Your body has suffered a great deal. You must rest.”

 

Rest did sound quite good to Celica.

 

Jedah lifted her up, and carried her out of the dark chamber, through a hall and into another room, lit to a dark orange by a roaring hearth, and he laid her down on a bed, throwing covers and furs on top of her. Celica began to warm a little, and her vision cleared, from long streaks of color to blotchy shapes. She recognized a pitcher on what looked like a bedside table, and reached for it. “Of course,” Jedah said, snatching it up a second before Celica would’ve knocked it over, pouring into a cup and offering it to her. It was only a bit, less than half full, but she couldn’t complain, and swallowed it all in half a second, then erupted into a coughing fit, a thick sludge colored dark by dust coming back up. Jedah gave her more water, and it stayed down that time.

 

“I know you would want more, but we must be mindful not to upset your constitution in this critical time.”

“Wh… wha--?” Celica mumbled.

 

“You have been dead for over a year. After killing you, Alm left your body and slayed Duma. The gods are both now dead,” Jedah said, looking down and rubbing at his temple with his right hand. “ _Emperor Albein_ has ruled with brutality ever since his coronation. He descended upon the Duma faithful with fire and sword, and provoked a war with the Arthegnii peoples of the Deadlands. He has killed tens of thousands in his madness.”

 

Celica slumped on her back, her limbs too weak to move. Her dream of Alm was true, then. He had lost it. He had always meant well, but that wasn’t enough. One foolish boy had doomed the entire world.

 

He had meant well. But now he was insane, and was dragging all of Valentia down with him. The fool…

“But not all hope is lost. A plan is in motion, that may yet resurrect the gods, and salvage Valentia’s destiny. Your part is the most vital one, Antheise. Rest, for now. We can speak more when you wake.”

 

Celica lay back with some light feelings of relief. She shut her eyes, and was gone.

 

\---

 

When she woke, the room was just as it had been when Jedah carried her in, but with the windows shuttered, it was impossible for Celica to tell what time it was. Celica jolted up, her mouth as dry as desert sand, and grabbed the water pitcher, swallowing half its contents in one long drink, soaking herself with the water that ran over her lips and down her face. She put it back, knowing she should have been more careful, when she noticed she didn’t smell of vomit. She was still naked, but someone had wiped her down.

 

When Alm killed her, she was surprised most at how little it hurt. The cuts were deep, but all she felt was burning pain in the wounds, like small fires. Celica knew there were worse ways to die; she had seen dozens. With Alm holding her, it didn’t truly feel all that bad. Now she felt nothing at all. Celica checked over herself. On the left of her stomach there was a thin scar, healed so well that she only found it because she remembered feeling where the blow struck. On her chest, however, Alm had hacked into her sternum, and the scar there was much more jagged. It was two inches long, and thin, but the skin stood up, and when Celica ran her fingers over it, she could feel where her ribs had healed, with an uneven bump left behind.

 

But she was alive. Celica could only thank the gods for her life, and complaining of the scars would be profoundly ungrateful.

 

With effort, Celica swung her clumsy legs over the side of the bed, and leaned forward, pulling one of the blankets around herself. She stood, unsteady, and stumbled around to the foot of the bed and collapsed to her knees on the cold floor. Celica brought herself to a kneel, put her hands together, and leaned forwards, shutting her eyes. She spent several minutes at prayer, thanking Mila and Duma for all their blessings. For the warm sun, for the cool rains, for the fertile soil. For laws, for truth, for the king’s justice. For good food and alcohol, for song and dance, for friends and all human pleasures. For life itself. None could exist without the gods. Celica normally prayed four times per day; at rising, before each meal, and before sleep. If she had been dead for a year, she was nearly fifteen hundred prayers behind.

 

“We will dress you when you are done,” said a monotone woman’s voice.

 

Celica squawked and stumbled to her feet, diving gracelessly behind the bed, twisted into a knot with the blanket.

 

“Do not be alarmed.”

 

Celica was very alarmed. She poked her head over the top of the bed and scanned around. To the right of her bed, sitting in a dark corner, were two witches. One’s purple hair was chin-length, the other’s long and tied back. Both stared straight at her with their black eyes.

 

“Are you ready to be dressed?” asked the short-haired one, her voice matching the one that had spoke second.

 

“How long have you been there?” Celica gasped at them.

 

“Lord Jedah left us to watch over you approximately nine hours ago. It is now early morning.”

 

_Have they just been sitting still, watching, that entire time?_

 

Celica had seen a few of the witches before - all gorgeous women clad in appealing outfits - but all their encounters had ended quickly and violently. Seeing two up close was something new. They stood up and walked to a table, carrying over an armful of stockings, smallclothes, and a dress matching theirs, leaving two other matching sets of clothing on the table. Celica let them dress her as they insisted. No later than that the long-haired one opened the door. “This way.” Celica stepped out, and the short-haired one stepped past her, grabbing her by the hand and pulling her along. The pace was quick and abnormal, but Celica made sure she kept up with the witches.

 

“What are your names?” Celica asked.

 

“Marla,” said the long-haired one.

 

“Hestia,” said the short-haired one, holding Celica’s hand.

 

_Sonya…_

 

Celica didn’t mention her. Their sister would mean nothing to them.

 

They pulled her along through the Tower halls. It seemed deserted to Celica until they began to approach the great hall, where dozens, or hundreds, of the remaining Faithful were filing out after their services had ended. Witches stood guard at every entrance but paid them no mind, while the ordinary members gawked and stared at Celica as she passed. Her dress matched that of any woman’s, so she knew they recognized her appearance, rather than her clothing marking her as out of place. Marla and Hestia finally brought her to a chamber connected to the great hall, where two blue-faced knights stiffly opened the doors, and she was pulled through.

 

The room was austere, the only notable adornment a statue of Duma on the desk. Jedah sat in it, facing perpendicularly from the door, slouched forward and staring deeply at the idol. A witch stood at his either side. “Anthiese,” he croaked without turning, “sit.”

 

Marla and Hestia stood on either side of the door, and didn’t accompany Celica further. She approached Jedah’s table, and sat in the stool across from him. It put her several inches below his height, so that he looked down at her.

 

“He is beautiful, is He not?” Jedah asked.

 

The statue did have its appeal. The Duma Faithful preferred to depict their god in His draconic form, a proud, crimson dragon superior to all but His sister, while the Mila Faithful more often used Her humanoid form. Celica thought both had their merits.

 

“He is, truly.”

 

“My voice pains me, for I only just finished addressing the Faithful. I hope you will be understanding if I move straight to the point.”

 

“Yes,” Celica said. “What… what happened?”

 

“So much. I can hardly tell where to begin. I escaped from the Royal Vault with your body after Alm killed you. There was nothing we could do at the time to aid Duma… our numbers were too few to make a stand with Him. So we retreated here, to Duma Tower, with Mila’s skull and your body. By the time of our arrival, you were too far gone, and as such I had your body frozen to halt the natural decay, in the hope we may one day return you to life. We scoured the archives and all our sacred texts, and found nothing, tried every ritual, and nothing. And then one day, you rose. It is truly a sign of the Gods’ favor: our works are just, and we shall prevail.”

 

“I don’t care about has come of myself, Jedah. What happened to Alm and the others? You said… a war. He started a war with the Faithful.”

 

Jedah leaned forward and tented his fingers, covering his mouth. “Emperor Albein...”

 

“Al-bein…” murmured one of his witches, her face twitching as if in confusion. Jedah looked over his shoulder at her in confusion, then settled his gaze back on Celica. “Officially, he was crowned emperor of Rigel, alongside your brother Conrad, who rules Zofia. The truth is far darker. Conrad is merely his puppet; the Deliverance army is loyal to Alm, and he wields them to crush dissent against his rule. His first act was to exterminate the Duma Faithful in Rigel, melting down thousands of ancient artifacts and sacking temples.”

 

“Why would he?” Celica gasped. “Alm would never…”

 

“He desired the gold and silver to pay his troops, to maintain his despotic rule. Such is one explanation. I fear that he is mad, and will stop at nothing if it means destroying all trace of us and the Gods. He would destroy any bearer of authority, power, or respect that rivals his own.”

 

Celica’s stomach felt like it was turning over. Her dream was true. Alm, gone mad with power. She had never seen it in him before, but now looking back the signs were all there. She remembered defeating Slayde in the Ram graveyard, and how Alm laughed and cheered with a dead knight’s blood splattered across his face. Or how he joined the losing side of a civil war out of little other than restless boredom. And now he had murdered the last remaining god and plunged Valentia into darkness. Something in it felt wrong; second to her duty to the Gods, Celica had always wanted nothing but to reunite with Alm, and regain the life that was taken from them. She would be his, and Alm would be hers. She had never thought him to be malicious.

 

But that was all a lie, or just her idiotic, childish fantasy. Alm had madness hidden in him from the very beginning, and she was too weak and foolish to see. Some part of her felt that it was wrong, but Celica ignored it. For Alm to have been in the right in killing the gods, they would have had to be in the wrong, and that was impossible.

 

“You told me there was a plan. You have a plan.”

 

“Such is the case, Anthiese. But it is only forming together, and will require a great deal of work before it will be complete. I can promise you that, when it is completed, the Gods will be resurrected, and peace restored to Valentia. I will require one thing of you, however.”

 

“Anything,” Celica said.

 

“Promise me - promise me that whatever comes, whatever happens, whatever is asked of you, you will not back down. You will be the keystone of the plan, and your resolve shall be tested. Our success will hinge on you giving all you have to offer.”

 

Celica thought of Alm. Her dreams, of Rudolf smashing his head open with an axe. When they touched just once, and she felt his soft hair and looked deep in his green eyes, before everything fell apart. The small pain of his sword as it tore through her. His eyes, again.

 

Then she thought of the Gods, so much greater than all of the people of Valentia combined, against whom Zofia and Rigel were worth as much as anthills.

 

“I will do whatever it takes to see the gods restored, Jedah. I pledge, upon all the love of Divine Mila, I will do all I can to bring about Her and Father Duma’s resurrection.”

 

He nodded. “I thank you, child. I cannot express how much it means. Much will change in the days to come, and I am afraid my preparations must draw my attention for now. You two!” he shouted to Marla and Hestia - return Anthiese to her chambers, and see to any needs she has. She has full access to the public library, and any of the facilities she desires.”

 

“Can they show me the library?” Celica asked. Jedah nodded, and Hestia came and took Celica’s hand, guiding her out of the room and through the halls. No-one stopped them or tried to speak, but Celica caught stares from most of those they passed. She hated receiving so much attention.

 

The library was thankfully quieter, and the few there were more focused on their books and scrolls than her. Celica wondered if she could find any recognizable readings from her time at the Novis priory. She skipped past the aisles containing writings on ethical philosophy and epistemology, reaching the theology section just after. Celica quickly found that no Mila scriptures were kept for public reading, so she knelt to look through the small section on Duma-Mila Faithful discourses. A tall, bald man, looking aimlessly through some books stacked across the aisle, and he paid Celica no mind as she searched through the shelf.

 

 _A Treatise Against the Foul Faithful of Mila_ was the first book, which she pushed back into the shelf. Next was _The Whore Goddess Mila,_ then a shorter paper, _Towards a New Interfaith Dialogue_ , which seemed promising until Celica saw the subtitle: _The Destruction of Mila Scriptures as Ethical Duty_ . Most of the titles in the shelf related in some manner to the annihilation of the Mila Faithful, which was a disappointment. _How to Debate the Mila Faithful and Destroy Them: 11 Stratagems for Winning the Debate_ was the final piece on the shelf, and seemed the most childish. Celica sighed at the poor selection, unsure what else was worth reading.

 

“Looking for something to read, Your Highness?” asked the man, his gruff voice somehow familiar. Celica stood and turned around, looking him in the eye and recognizing him in a second.

 

“My name is Nymec. How are you, Princess Anthiese?”

 

“Well, thank you. And yourself?” _Grandpapa_ , she didn’t add, for Hestia and Marla stood elbow-to-elbow at the end of the aisle.

 

“Quite fine! You seem to be lacking in reading material. Might I recommend a book?”

 

It was so odd for Celica to see Mycen act, but he took to it well. She tried to mask her shock at seeing him. “Yes, I wouldn’t mind.”

 

Mycen put an arm around her, and Celica tried not to recoil - she hated when men touched her. He walked them around the corner and towards the history section, a few aisles down, and in the second they were out of sight of Marla and Hestia he pressed a small rolled-up note into her hands, while going off on a tangent about the rule of Emperor Rigel I. They hooked into the aisle, and he scanned for a book on said emperor, pulled it off the shelf, and handed it to her, saying she _just had to_ give the diagrams of his building projects a look.

 

“A rather peculiar fact about this very building is the accurate plans were preserved to this day, copied in this book. Truly fascinating, truly fascinating stuff. Now, enjoy your readings, Princess Anthiese!”

 

Mycen trotted off. Even his gait was different; the Mycen she knew strode about with purpose, not in a half-shuffle. Celica pocketed his note to read when she had the opportunity, but felt more confused than ever at seeing not just Mycen’s demeanour, but his presence at all. She hadn’t thought of him as such a capable actor. What could he be doing, in the last stronghold of the Duma Faithful? Had Alm thrown him out? She knew Mycen wouldn’t stand for any of his crimes. But then why come to Duma Tower? She had always been bothered by Mycen’s irreligiosity, so she could count out him finding faith in his old-er age. So he was there either to search for her, or to sabotage the Faithful. Celica needed to read his note. The problem was doing it alone.

 

She turned around, coming to face Marla and Hestia blocking the aisle, staring straight at her. “Can I sign this out?”

 

Hestia snatched the book from her, while Marla grabbed Celica’s hand, and they marched her off to the registration desk. A substantial line had formed - fifteen or so Faithful - and after half a minute’s wait it was clear the line was moving at a snail’s pace. Hestia shoved her way through, wielding sharp elbows and the implied threat of incineration to plow their way to the front of the line, where she shoved aside a bookish man and swept his pile of books off the librarian’s desk, slamming _The Grand Projects of Emperor Rigel I_  onto the table. The librarian quickly scrawled something in her book, which looked more like scribbles than an entry of who was taking out what book and when, before stuttering they were free to go.

 

Celica reached a hand down to the man Hestia knocked over at the front of the line. “I am extremely sorry, sir--”

 

He slapped her hand away and stood on his own, grumbling. “Fucking witches have all been acting off this last year. Just go.” Celica went red and nodded sheepishly, then Hestia tugged on her hand and pulled her along again.

 

\---

 

When they returned to her room, Celica walked over to the windowside desk that Marla and Hestia had been sitting by when she woke up. She struggled with the window shutters for a moment before forcing the rusted hinges open, revealing a sight of the Deadlands mire as far as she could see. It was mid afternoon but very dark, from the combined effects of the winter and the purple swamps, which seemed to swallow the sun’s light. Celica wondered how the Arthegnii barbarians could bear to live in them. The blue men were a steady source of recruits for the Faithful, and Celica saw dozens of their number in the Tower. The Church was likely an escape for the devout, who could climb beyond constant tribal warfare to something greater than themselves. The Arthegnii had a reputation for killing all travelers who entered their lands. It struck Celica as odd that her party wasn’t attacked by them even once.

 

After the moment’s thought, Celica sat down with the book, to read until her evening prayers. Hestia and Marla were standing in the middle of the room, facing her.

 

“The High Faithful, Lord Jedah, has provided us to you as personal protectors. We can also acquire literature or clothing, give sexual favors, prepare meals, or provide other services as needed. Do you have any needs?” asked Marla.

 

“I… ah... no, no, I am well,” Celica stammered, feeling herself going red. Was _that_ how the Duma Faithful used the witches? It… it wasn’t her place to question the practices.

 

“Very well.” Marla lay down in the bed and went still. Celica wasn’t sure if she slept, or just conserved energy, but Marla didn’t move or make noises. Hestia stood at the door.

 

Celica set her book up to block Hestia’s sight of her hands, and reached for the pocket she had hidden Mycen’s note in. It was empty. Panic gripped her for and she scanned the room trying to find if she had dropped it there, or perhaps in the library, when she saw it. In the center of the room, by the foot of the bed, a small rolled-up scrap of paper. Hestia saw her alarm and traced her gaze to the note, then walked over and picked it up. Celica felt a cold sweat starting, her hands shaking, and she thought of how she could kill both the witches at once. Hestia unrolled the note and looked through it, and Celica wondered - Ragnarok, a fireball, or lightning strike would kill all three of them, Excalibur would make too much noise, and so Seraphim it was. She recalled the syllables, and targeted Hestia, who was done reading, but was making an odd shaking with her head, blinking rapidly as if dazed. Hestia walked over to her and placed the note on the desk.

 

“This is yours. Do not tell Marla.”

 

Hestia returned to her spot at the door, and Celica didn’t move for a few seconds, her panic subsiding. She slid the note over and flipped it open.

 

_Jedah is a madman. Do not trust him. Do not believe his lies. His plan is monstrous. I have secured an escape. Kill your witches and meet me at the stables during the Faithful evening prayers any night you are able. It is not too late to stop him._

 

Celica’s heart sank, and she wanted to scream, or pull her hair, or hit her head against a wall. She couldn’t believe it. It was impossible. She loved Mycen with all her heart, and wouldn’t let harm come to him, but neither could she go along with his plans.

 

“I’m not going, Hestia,” Celica said. Hestia didn’t respond.

 

Celica walked to the fireplace and tossed the note in. Within a few seconds it was burning, then gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy new chapter. Sorry for falling off the face of the earth for several months. Just had a bit of a hellish semester. Chapter is a bit short, but it’s bridging a gap, so I thought it would be alright. I’m not going to bother trying to promise anything related to timing of updates, because we all know how good I am at that, but I want to get them out faster (and now that I’m free for a while, I have fewer excuses). 
> 
> We'll see what difference that makes.
> 
> Bonus:  
> Celica_IRL: https://i.imgur.com/WVvhcb2.jpg


	6. A fool's errand

****

_Late Summer, 401 VC_

 

Every depiction of the god Duma that Lukas had seen kept to one point of universal agreement: He was red.

 

There were many different interpretations of the god, and for most, His appearance was a function of how much favor He had been in among Zofians at the time of the piece’s creation. Lukas’ favorite was a mosaic in the priory near his father’s manor, depicting the gods appointing Emperor Rigel and Queen Zofia to their positions as heads of state. Duma was elegant, crimson, and strong, the equal and opposite of graceful Mother Mila. Later depictions grew more hostile. By Lima IV’s reign, Duma was a hideous monster, and in religious icons He was made up of twisted tentacles that reached and grasped down to tear at Zofia’s border. But even the recent icons agreed on coloration: He was red.

 

The Duma that Lukas saw was different. The War Father was a rotted, slimy mass, with ill-colored greenish scales that dropped away and scraped off against the floor when He moved. Stench filled the massive chamber, leaving it with the aroma of a food compost. Duma moved only in pained, cumbersome wobbles; it reminded Lukas of his father, who in the last years of his life was so beset by jointache that he would trip and fall daily, refusing a cane. He shambled around the manor, then their house, then just his chambers, until he fell and struck his head on a cabinet, and never got up again. Lukas never expected to feel pity for a god, or have one remind him of a frail, prideful old man who preferred broken bones to the indignity of acknowledging he was past his prime.

 

But even a decaying god was the most fearsome foe Lukas had fought in his life. Duma threw himself about, stabbing about and crushing anyone too slow with His tentacles, or burning archers to dust with ocular beams. Only Alm and Lukas could get a scratch on His scales, even though they felt as soft as an overripe Zofian peach. Lukas felt like he was dying; every breath hurt, the Lance felt as heavy as a tree, and staying upright amidst patches of slimy rot was difficult enough without exhaustion weighing him down and flailing tentacles swinging at him from every direction. He let out one last cry, bringing Duma’s attention to him, and he charged straight at the god’s face. Duma stared him down, gathering power as Lukas closed, time slowing with every moment as Lukas stared into the red eyes, glowing and gaining strength, ready to incinerate him any second -- when a small blue object flew over Lukas’ head from behind, bonking into Duma with little force, but catching the god straight in the eye. He startled and tried to retreat, when a blue and green flash - _Alm -_ passed Lukas and jumped on top of His head.

 

Duma tried to shake Alm, waving His head back and forth, until Lukas reached them and lunged with all his strength into the god’s right leg. Lukas fell, all his strength spent, but Duma collapsed to the ground, lamed. Alm had held on the whole time, and now stood atop Duma’s face. He lifted the Kingsfang in a half-swording grip - one hand on the blade, one on the handle - and thrust it down into Duma’s third eye. The god screamed, and Alm pulled the sword free and struck down again, three more times into the eye, before striking down on the center of Duma’s forehead. The god stopped struggling, then gave His last breath, but Alm kept up his assault. “DIE! DIE! DIE!--” he screamed, punching through Duma’s skull with a _crunch_ , his next blows throwing brain matter loose.

 

“Alm--” Lukas gasped, struggling for breath, “that’s… that’s enough.”

 

Alm didn’t seem to hear him, but his strikes grew weaker and slower, his voice quieter. “Die, die, die… die…” Alm left the sword embedded in Duma’s brain, and stayed in place, on his knees slumped forward, silent. He tried to stand, then, but a whole chunk of scales came loose beneath his weight and tore free, Alm tumbling down off the other end of Duma’s head with it. “Alm!” Lukas gasped. He felt like he couldn’t move.

 

_Knees. Get on your knees._

 

Lukas shifted on the ground, planting his knees down.

 

_Get on one foot, and push yourself up._

 

Lukas’ left was painful, broken or sprained, so he went with his right foot. He grabbed onto Duma’s tattered wing, digging his fingers into the slimy skin, and pulled himself to his feet.

 

_Find Alm._

 

Lukas leaned left against Duma’s body, letting it hold his weight, as he shambled his way around. He kept his eyes low as he turned back to the rest of the party - there was nothing he could do for them. Duma’s assault tore off limbs and heads, and left charred skeletons and crushed bodies. The rest of their force was either alive, and didn’t need his help, dead, and beyond helping, or too badly wounded for him to be of assistance. Alm needed him.

 

Lukas turned back as he passed around Duma’s skull. It had taken him a minute to move ten yards, and Alm was no longer lying down when Lukas saw him. He was sitting with his back against Duma, slouched forward with his head against his knees, shaking with sobs. Lukas limped over, then slid down next to him. Alm looked over to him, his eyes red and puffy with tears streaming down his cheeks, his nose bleeding out of both nostrils from the fall, slime in his hair. Lukas knew he should say something, but had no idea what.

 

‘It is going to be alright,’ was the first option, except Lukas couldn’t think of a single manner in which he believed things would be ‘alright.’ ‘You did the right thing’ was true, but plainly obvious to all, and would provide zero consolation. Lukas defaulted into physical action. He put his arms around Alm, and pulled him in close. The embrace was cumbersome with both in plate armor, but nonetheless Alm slumped onto him, resting his forehead on Lukas’ breastplate as he sobbed. Lukas clutched Alm tight, no clue what to say or do. He planted a kiss on the top of Alm’s head, and ran his fingers through Alm’s soft hair, smoothing it out.

 

Alm’s breathing began to slow, growing more steady, and the sobs weakened. Lukas had no innate sense for knowing what to say to distressed people. Everything he did to try and help was an educated guess based on prior experience.

 

Sometimes he guessed right.

 

\---

 

_A day later_

 

Faye returned from Alm’s room sobbing and incoherent. Lukas had suspected she was a poor candidate to send for him, but had thought it was a poor idea to say. Lukas did not believe, but he had never been one to get between the faithful and their gods. More than a few looked to him as the next one to send, and as such he sortied to try and speak with Alm. The bedroom door was locked; Lukas thumped it a few times and called out Alm’s name.

 

_Who next? Tobin and Gray? Unlikely. Men don’t bare their feelings to each other. Clair? Alm would see that to be a betrayal of Celica just as he did Faye. Clive? With Mathilda? Perhaps--_

 

The door opened a crack, and Alm peered through at him, checked no-one else was with him, then opened the door the rest of the way. Alm’s left sleeve was coated in blood, limp at his side, and he stared through Lukas with an empty expression. His bright green eyes, always fiery and alight, were dull and distant. He gave a faint gesture to come inside, and Lukas entered the emperor’s bedroom.

 

It lacked a single depiction of Duma, little surprise to Lukas, instead being sparsely-decorated, with a few historical paintings and mosaics up on the walls. Alm leaned against the bloody table. “So why are _you_ here?”

 

“Everyone wants to help you Alm. They know we are close, so I was sent to do it.”

 

Alm gave one laugh. “If you’re going to give me a talk about keeping my chin up and taking this in my stride, just leave and send Clive back to do it.”

 

_Were that the case, I could hardly disagree..._

 

“No, Alm. I do not wish to tell you what to do, or how you should feel. What can I do to help you?”

 

Alm stared at him, trying to detect insincerity or a hidden agenda, then relented and looked away at the ground in front of him. “I… I can’t sleep. Can you just stay for a bit?”

 

“Of course, Alm.”

 

Alm took off his bloody shirt and kicked his boots free, then slumped down in bed. Lukas sat next to him, then lay down as well, and took Alm’s hand in his. He squeezed it, and after a few seconds Alm squeezed back. Alm tossed and turned, but kept his fingers intertwined with Lukas’. After a few minutes Alm was shakily asleep.

 

Lukas considered sliding free and leaving Alm there; it was all Alm had asked for. Lukas knew that Rigelians saw all Zofians as harebrained pleasure-chasers, just as Zofians saw Rigelians as violent thugs. The conclusions certainly followed if generalizing from Zofian kings, who collected the best-looking women and men in their harems, and fucked and drugged their ways into early graves. He had little doubt there would be quiet insinuations of sodomy, after Alm rejected a pretty young woman but allowed Lukas to stay. But Lukas knew he needed to. The last thing Alm needed was being left by another person, even if just for a few hours.

 

And besides… Lukas had slept four hours in the previous two days, and the bed was soft. He held onto Alm’s hand, and shut his eyes.

 

\---

 

_Winter, 401 VC_

 

General Ezekiel approached Lukas with no prompting, a few days after the crowning of Albein II and Conrad VIII.

 

“You need to leave.”

 

“I would appreciate an explanation as to why,” Lukas responded.

 

“Emperor Albein is not king of Zofia. He has Rigelian advisers, and Rigelian interests. Being trailed by a foreigner is the last thing he needs. Do what is best for him.”

 

Ezekiel fit well with the Rigelians, few of which were particularly verbose. He left as soon as he stopped speaking, affording Lukas no time for a response. He had, in fact, been on his way to meet Alm when the general fell upon him, and Lukas thought as he walked the rest of the way. Ezekiel wasn’t the type to act rashly, and had surely spoken with the others remaining of Rudolf’s Companions; Massena, Magnus, a few others. If they had agreed Lukas was to be pushed out, there was little he could do. Lukas did not fear for his life, but didn’t want to cause strife in such difficult times, and by the time he reached Alm’s room his mind was made up.

 

The bedroom was freezing. Alm was facing out a wide-open window, with wind blowing hard through it, bringing gusts of snow in to coat the windowsill and collect on his cloak. The white snow made a harsh contrast against his black clothes, the only color he had worn since Celica’s death. He turned around when Lukas entered. From behind, Alm looked strong, immobile instead of shivering. But when Lukas saw his face he could tell just how far gone Alm was. He had always possessed a sort of shine in his eyes, and a confident, outgoing, perhaps brash eagerness. But that had been bled out of him. Lukas couldn’t tell what would take its place.

 

“Hello, Alm.”

 

“Lukas.” Alm weakly shut the window. “The weather is… cold.” Alm mumbled.

 

“So it is. I have read this sort of storm is typical around the border in this time of year.” Lukas said.

 

“Oh.”

 

When preparing to bring up something serious, Lukas usually found it useful to ease his way towards it, with a bit of small talk first. Now he saw no point.

 

“I believe it would be best for me to remain in Zofia when you return north.”

 

Alm looked at him with an empty gaze. “Zeke kicked you out?”

 

“No,” Lukas lied.

 

_Alm is sharper than we give him credit for._

 

“Yes. But I understand.”

 

They went to silence for a few seconds, then Lukas broke it. “What will you do when you march north again?”

 

“We’re going to wipe out the Duma Faithful. I’m not going to let them hurt anyone, ever again. I’ll kill every last one of them if I have to.”

 

So that was what it took to make Alm say anything. It sounded poorly.

 

“Alm. Do you know why people follow you?”

 

“...”

 

“It is because you are kind. You value everyone, and every loss hurts you. You mustn’t let it destroy you, but you mustn’t lose track of it, either, or you will be lost.”

 

“...”

 

“Don’t lose yourself, Alm.”

 

“I don’t even know who I am, Lukas.”

 

\---

 

_Winter, 402 VC_

 

Steel plate armor was a wondrous thing.

 

Forsyth, after being beaten upon by a large number of axe-wielding barbarians for most of a minute, had injuries limited to merely two black eyes, a face that was more bruise than not, three missing teeth, and a large number of bruised ribs. He sported the biggest smile that Lukas could ever imagine, lying dazed in his bedding after the surgeons judged his injuries as non-life threatening. He was far down the list of those who needed magical healing, but with the battle casualties so low every wounded Rigelian was seen to by a pair or team of healers, who could extend their white magic to saving limbs, more than just lives. Forsyth would be seen sometime in the next few days.

 

The Arthegnii banner he had captured lay by his side, and he clutched over at it every few minutes, in the misguided fear that someone may find some way of stealing it.

 

“I heard… Alm fought Zekstriss. Killed him?” Forsyth got out, less coherent than usual due to the opiates, of which the surgeons also had aplenty.

 

“Yes, he did. In single combat, atop the wagon wall.”

 

“Was it glorious?”

 

“Alm beat Zekstriss senseless, then tore his head off with his bare hands.”

 

Forsyth’s eyes opened as wide as they could go, but were still droopy. “Magnificent… I wish I had s-saw.”

 

_Hmm._

 

“What do you think of Alm? Particularly his actions as Emperor?”

 

“I would follow him anywhere... just like before.”

 

“To the capital, to depose Conrad?”

 

Forsyth’s eyes shot open. “Anywhere he would ask, I meant, he would never ask that. Alm knows what is right.” Then, after a second, “He… did not give that order, right?”

 

“No,” Lukas assured, “And I am confident he will not.” Lukas considered airing his concerns, but refrained, not wishing to trouble him while he was so badly injured, or risk that Forsyth do or say something brash. Care was needed.

 

“I hope the pain doesn’t trouble you overmuch, Forsyth, and that your recovery comes quickly. I should leave you time to rest.”

 

“Thanks, Lukas,” Forsyth said, putting a hand on his banner, before lying back down to sleep. He had passed out before Lukas exited the tent. There was much else they could have spoken of, much Lukas felt they should have spoken of. But there were some things the two had silently agreed to never discuss.

 

Outside, Lukas walked between a few of varying sizes until he reached the largest, at the center of the Zofian encampment. Clive sat inside cross-legged on the ground, staring sadly at the far corner, lost in thought. He got like that sometimes when hitting a setback, and it took his sister or Mathilda to break him out. But Clair was herself distraught and Mathilda not present, though Lukas suspected that _had_ she been present she would’ve given Alm a good few cracks around the skull, and comforting Clive would’ve been unnecessary.

 

“Clive,” Lukas said, as he entered.

 

“Lukas! Come sit,” Clive said. Lukas sat across from him.

 

“How is Forsyth holding up?”

 

“Forsyth is well, though temporarily out of fighting shape. An Arthegnii’s club could not break his body, nor his spirit. He is eager to be back in action once the healers see to him.”

 

Clive grinned. “I’m glad to hear Forsyth is doing well once more. Sir Gray and Sir Tobin also fought well in the battle; I thought you may have wanted to know, as you recruited the two of them with Alm. The commoners enrolled in the Zofian knights have all been a success so far.”

 

“Sir Mycen trained Alm’s friends well. They all have much to be proud of.”

 

With nothing to talk about except what they had been trying to avoid, Lukas and Clive went silent for a few seconds, the good mood dying away.

 

“What happened?” Clive asked. “How could this have happened?”

 

“I am surprised we didn’t see it coming, Clive.”

 

“These damned Rigelians… they drained everything good from him and made a monster. Is it the land? The culture, or people? It runs an export trade in horrors,” Clive said.

 

“Perhaps, or perhaps not. But Clive, we musn’t be over eager in attributing this to factors we had no connection to. In a year’s time, Alm went from having never left Ram Village to being the Emperor of Rigel, killing his father, cousin, and love in one day. Then he lost Sir Mycen, then his remaining friends, when we returned to Zofia. Perhaps we should have foreseen what it would do to him. Alm was always eager for battle, and that’s the only part of him that outlived Princess Celica.”

 

Clive’s frown deepened, and Lukas feared he had caused him to cry. Clive covered his face. “If… if only I was stronger, when the Deliverance needed leadership. If only I was captured, and Mathilda led. Or you, or Fernand. I thought it so easy to pass responsibility onto Alm, so convenient… so selfish. This mess is my own doing.”

 

Lukas’ stomach was uneasy, and he felt off in the way he always did around others in distress. He guessed at what to say. “Do not despair, Clive. This was the product of prophecy. It was always bound to turn out this way, regardless of your choices. You mustn’t heap blame upon yourself for the work of the gods.” Pushing blame toward impersonal, ambiguous forces, like prophecy or gods or chance, made one’s responsibilities easier to bear, Lukas had always suspected.

 

Clive exhaled and uncovered his face, revealing his saddened expression and red eyes, but thankfully no tears. “Thank you, Lukas. It means much to hear from you. I couldn’t manage this without you.”

 

“That is kind of you to say, Clive.”

 

“Sir Clive!” shouted one of their attendants. “General Ezekiel is here. He wishes to speak with you.”

 

“Send him in,” Clive grumbled. He ground his teeth.

 

Ezekiel entered, walking stiffly, and saw Clive and Lukas sitting on the floor. After a quick look around the tent, he sat down across from them. “Good day, Sir Clive, Sir Lukas.”

 

“Good day,” Clive muttered, less than sincere.

 

Ezekiel did not hesitate.

 

“You are correct about Albein. His behavior is erratic and fanatical, and has grown this way over the past year. I believe it worsened gradually, too slowly for any of us to notice at the time,” he said, with surprising honesty. “Sir Lukas, I threatened you a year ago, to the effect of forcing you to remain in Zofia and away from Albein. That was a grave mistake.”

 

Lukas’ father told him not to hold his breath waiting for apologies, particularly not from a man, and more than that, not from a Rigelian. Lukas was content, and knew this was the best he would receive.

 

“Thank you, General Ezekiel” Lukas said. “I wish not to be overly-direct, but we will need some plan for how to accommodate for Alm’s instabilities. The current state of affairs is untenable.”

 

Ezekiel nodded. “That is what I came to speak of. In the short run, I had an idea for a way of nudging him towards reason. I mean no offense, Clive, but Albein seems to associate you with frailty, and myself with harshness. If we take up opposing positions, Lukas could step in, as his friend and suggest a reasonable compromise. It may not work perfectly, but if we are subtle enough it may push him in the right direction often enough, for the time being, at least.”

 

Lukas had no doubt being called frail was yet another kick in the head for Clive, but the knight was eager enough for any solution and seemed not to care. “That sounds better than anything I’ve thought of,” Clive admitted. “We should attempt it at the next council, on the more important issues. The question remains of what to do in the long run. If Alm’s mental state doesn’t recover, I doubt we can maintain this act forever.”

 

“More contact with his old friends from the war, was my main thought. Sir Tobin and Sir Grey, as well as yourself, Lukas. Would you consider remaining in Rigel even after the campaign?”

 

“Of course. I am sure Sir Tobin and Sir Grey would agree as well.”

 

“Good. There was one other. Clive, Albein often speaks favorably about your sister, Lady Clair. But I understood the two had a falling-out.”

 

Clive’s expression hardened a bit. “Alm’s stunt got several of her colleagues killed, yes. But they were very… close, before.”

 

“How close? Might they…”

 

“I am not hurling my sister into his bed to make him feel better about himself,” Clive stated categorically.

 

“I didn’t _quite_ mean… Regardless, we aren’t out to repeat that one,” Zeke muttered.

 

“ _Repeat?”_ Clive asked.

 

Zeke sighed.

 

“After defeating the Faithful, the army was celebrating, and Magnus chanced upon a pretty whore girl. She had red hair and something of a resemblance to Princess Anthiese, so we thought it may help him come to terms… that was the first time he ever screamed at us. The whole scheme was harebrained. Even then, he will have to marry, and a Zofian noblewoman would certainly set the right tone of cooperation between the two regimes.”

 

‘Harebrained’ seemed the right word to Lukas. The scene sounded bizarrely farcical, and all the more for it being _Rigelians_ making such fools of themselves.

 

“In the long run, _perhaps_ ,” Clive grumbled. “Nothing will happen without Clair’s wishes, and she seems unlikely to warm to Alm anytime in the near future. Is that acceptable?”

 

“Yes, of course. I appreciate your cooperation in this. I sense our interests align more than we thought,” Zeke said. “For now we ought to find Albein and plot our next move. The last I heard he headed to the inlet to bathe, for some odd reason. Should we send a runner to find him?”

 

“I can go,” Lukas said. “I can take measure of his mood on the trip back. What will the first issue be?”

 

“The problem of captives,” Zeke said.

 

“Magnificent,” Lukas sighed.

 

\---

 

At the waterfront, Lukas got a full look at the bridge’s wreckage. The boat bridge had to have been something of a marvel, particularly considering the engineering skills most expected of the Arthegnii. Tethering ships together, stable enough to move large numbers of men and horses, was no mean feat. Lukas wondered what it looked like when it came apart. Pegasus knights came swooping down over the water, dropping pots of blasting powder to skip along the water’s surface and detonate against the boats. It would’ve broken into segments first, then as those were dragged down the inlet they came apart, leaving their parts to be swept all the way to the northern sea, or wash up on the riverbanks. He thought of the panic the men must have felt, their bridge shuddering and breaking up, capsizing or sliding downriver, a panicked and futile struggle to the shore, then nothing but icy cold and sinking...

 

From his position, Lukas was upriver of the bridge remnant, its wreckage, and the beach killing grounds the Arthegnii were chased into the previous night. It left the water clean for drinking and cooking - which was the most common use, with men and women filling pots and canteens with fresh, ice-cold water - or bathing, for the truly mad. Which was just Alm.

 

A few armored knights stood at guard, around Alm’s under-armor clothing, lying discarded on some rocks. The emperor himself was twenty yards out into the water, having quite a bit of fun swimming.

 

“Lukas! Fancy a dip?” Alm invited when they made eye contact.

 

On the one hand, the water was bound to be freezing. On the other, Lukas hadn’t properly cleaned in weeks, nothing beyond washing his arms and face before a meal, or wiping down with a chilling wet cloth when he had the energy before sleep. Changing into clean clothes could help, but he was out of those, and he reeked like everyone else did after weeks marching. Lukas pulled at his collar and gave an experimental sniff, then immediately wished he hadn’t.

 

His mind made up, Lukas stripped naked, throwing his clothes on the rocks, sprinting into the water before he could rethink the decision. The cold enveloped him, hitting him everywhere at once and driving the breath from his lungs, but he forced his head under, and dove forward to swim for a few seconds. He lacked a brush or soap but needed neither, and could instantly feel the filth begin to slough off him.

 

Alm laughed when Lukas surfaced, clapping him hard on the back with a hand that felt like a lump of bone slapping against his skin, and stung worse than any blow he took in the battle.

 

“Wh-what made you decide to bathe?” Lukas sputtered, his teeth chattering.

 

Alm shrugged. “I was dirty. Wanted to get clean.”

 

They spent another half minute in the water, enough for Lukas to scrub most of the grime off his body and almost freeze to death. Then it was back out, towelling off, and back into the same dirty clothes as before.

 

\---

 

Upon their return from the river, Alm turned back into Emperor Albeing, and the highest Arthegnii chieftains were brought before him.

 

They hunched forwards, shameful, scared, and keeping their eyes on the ground. They wore the same clothes they had fought in, but were stripped of armor and anything that could be used as a weapon: knives, obviously, but also any brooches, cloak clasps, and belt buckles. Their clothes hung off them, giving them the energy of freezing beggars, not of the leaders of 50-man strong warbands that ravaged the Empire’s countryside.

 

Alm slouched in Zekstriss’ throne, around which some of the infantrymen had piled dozens of severed Arthegnii heads, such that it seemed the throne rose from a mound of them, and with captured weapons and standards piled on top. The seat elevated Alm, so that even sitting he was at head height to any man standing on the ground. Alm, like every man in the army, had long run out of clean clothes, but his all-black attire hid much of the dirt. Over his gambeson he wore a dark red cloak, with gold trim, which had been Emperor Rudolf’s before passing into Alm’s possession, which shimmered with his movement.

 

The chieftains stood before Alm, uncertain, until Magnus approached them from the side. “Kneel before the emperor!” All five of them fell to a knee in a second.

 

Alm sat still, appraising them. After a few seconds he said, “How should I have you killed?”

 

None weighed in.

 

“You invaded in the summer and winter. Each time, you murdered, looted, burned, and raped a path across the east. As emperor, my office is to _‘Apply Rigel’s laws, defend it from invaders, and serve Lord Duma in every capacity.’_ ” He laughed. “Let’s scratch that last one. Regardless, the application of Rigel’s laws falls to me. Murder is punished by execution, looting by the loss of a hand, arson by the loss of a hand as well, and rape by castration. But in times of war, the emperor of Rigel gains full discretion over the punishment of invaders, so I can do whatever I think is fitting. So what do you think is right?” he asked again.

 

“I don’t feel like cutting all your hands, cocks, and heads off. I think the best choice is to crucify every one of the two thousand and five hundred of you, and place you every few yards along the inlet beaches, so your brethren know what awaits them in Rigel. Would you consider that fair?”

 

It was not the Arthegnii that spoke.

 

“Emperor Albein! Stop this now, I beg of you. This is barbaric, and a perversion of justice regardless,” said Clive, who stepped out in front of the prisoners to face up at Alm. “Your duty goes beyond thinking up the most painful punishment for evil men, Albein.”

 

“That is easy for you to say, Zofian,” cut in General Ezekiel. “A hard touch is needed, merely for Rigel to survive. Emperor Albein, I consider crucifixion too light a sentence. Replace it with burning, and scatter their ashes along the shores, for the same effect.

 

 _“Hmm…”_ Alm muttered.

 

“Emperor Albein, if I may,” Lukas offered.

 

“Of course, Lukas.”

 

“I believe killing these men is counterproductive, and placing skulls or ashes on the border will not dissuade another attack in the coming year. It is unnecessary; the greater part of their strength was killed on the beaches, and with Zekstriss dead their unity will be lost. The Arthegnii are more likely to go to war with each other than to return after the punishment you have already wrought upon them.”

 

Lukas could imagine the gears spinning in Alm’s head as he processed that, reason easing its way through a damaged mind. “Pray tell then, Lukas, what should be the fate of the prisoners?”

 

“You know the Arthegnii tribes have taken many thousands of slaves in the year’s war. You could offer these men for the return of your people.”

 

At the mention of the war’s victims, the emperor’s eyes opened wide. “Of course,” he muttered, looking down, perhaps ashamed he hadn’t thought of it. “Of course. You!” he shouted to the chieftains. “I will free each of you, with your arms and three men each. You will return to your tribes, and immediately escort all enslaved Rigelians back to the inlet. Once all my people are returned, I will ship your fighting men back to the Deadlands. Do you accept?”

 

“Yes, of course, your excellency!” the chiefs all said, or some close-enough variant. They were in no position to haggle.

 

“We are completing a census of the damaged lands. We will know exactly how many were taken,” Ezekiel said. “Do not come up short.”

 

The chiefs enthusiastically promised they wouldn’t, and Magnus escorted them off, still under heavy guard. Lukas felt the tension ease, made quick eye contact with Clive and Ezekiel, and shared a faint nod with each. Their trial was a success; Alm could be manipulated, or as Lukas preferred to think of it, prodded, towards the right thing through the correct appeal to his better instincts. He couldn’t help but smile a bit.

 

_Hope is not lost. Rigel is the land of sorrows, but the peoples’ suffering can be, for the time being, alleviated._

 

\---

 

The next issue was a report passed along by Magnus. “There was a detachment of Arthegnii which fled the field together. They have been spotted moving along the road in the direction of Fear Mountain. Approximately thirty, mounted and armed.”

 

Alm’s fury had been restrained from the prisoners, but Lukas thought out his next words before he said them. “Order my guard to arm. I’ll pursue them in person.”

 

Lukas glimpsed at Zeke and Clive, coming to a rapid understanding; not worth fighting, Alm was in little danger, he could vent some anger, and his absence could give a chance to get affairs under control. They could afford not to disagree. “Alm, may I come along?” Lukas asked.

 

“Of course, Lukas. We’ve all heard of your famous patrolling aptitude,” Alm said with a dark smirk. “General Ezekiel will hold the senior command while I am gone.”

 

In one hour, Lukas and the emperor’s guard were armed, mounted, and equipped for the pursuit, and they rode out with Alm at their head.

 

\---

 

The isolation from the army gave them much more use for their mounts’  speed, and they ranged far every day. Even with the harsh climate, corruption of much of the land, and the war, one couldn’t ride far in Rigel without encountering men, so they passed at least one significant village or habitation every day. In most the people had hidden themselves and their possessions from the rampaging armies, and so they carried on until they came across the few villagers willing to remain in the open. Then they would quarter themselves in their houses, with Alm providing them with official documents exempting them from their yearly taxes for the value of the food and housing provided. The guard also behaved itself unusually well around the local women, which Lukas knew to be Alm’s order.

 

Friendly locals meant abundant information. Villagers willingly guided them along the way, pointing out sites where the Arthegnii had camped and the direction they headed in. Their group was gaining on the barbarians, clearly, who had not diverted their course from Fear Mountain, possibly hoping it was a site of refuge, that they would find friendly faces, or at least somewhere to hold out. Lukas couldn’t imagine what the barbarians thought, if anything. The last habitations ended hours before Fear Mountain came into sight, the lands going unclaimed due to the blighting and fear of Nuibaba, both of which remained over a year after her death. Unlike the nearby mountains, which were forested until the treeline, Fear Mountain was entirely bare, apart from a few dozen crooked, shriveled trees, with a zig-zagging path wide enough for a horse-drawn wagon. The Arthegnii had clearly taken the road, leaving dense horse tracks behind, but it was unclear if they had gone up and stayed, or turned and rode back down.

 

Alm and Lukas rode in front. Lukas tightly gripped Duma’s Lance in his right hand, while Alm rode much more casually, the Kingsfang sheathed at his side. With every switchback Lukas expected to turn around into a hail of arrows and rocks, with Arthegnii bearing down on him, but each time he turned to just see another length of road. As they reached the peak, it flattened, with a large area of land enclosed by a gated ten-foot wall. Lukas lowered his lance, and Alm finally drew the Kingsfang, and they rode hard through the opened gate, ready for a fight.

 

A wide, snowy field awaited them. Lukas scanned all over, but there was nothing. No archers, no riders, no ambush. Just Nuibaba’s Abode a few hundred yards off.

 

“Lukas,” Alm said. “Found one.”

 

Lukas rode around Alm fast, ready to strike a blow, when he realized it wouldn’t be necessary. The Arthegnii rider was face down in the snow, almost covered over. An icicle was lodged in the side of his head, with some blood leaked out into the snow. Alm chuckled, looking back at the gate, which had a number of icicles hanging down from the metal frame. “Hit his head?” Alm joked.

 

It seemed unlikely to Lukas that the rider could strike the side of his head on an icicle hanging downward, hard enough to impale himself.

 

“There, look, another!” shouted Tobin, pointing out another fallen shape. Lukas rode over and prodded the man with the Lance. He didn’t move, but he looked singed.

 

“This one was killed with a lightning spell. They must have been attacked by a mage,” Lukas said. “Alm, with your leave, I would take a group of knights forward and investigate the manor. You mustn’t risk yourself on such a minor affair.”

 

Alm shut his visor. “I’ll be fine, Lukas. Fan out and move up! Don’t let him hit more than one of you at once.”

 

Lukas didn’t bother arguing, and followed Alm’s order. They rode quickly, passing over fallen riders - some with their horses lying dead with them, some alone, their horses likely having run off - every dozen yards or so. When they reached the entrance there was a cluster of dead men and horses, where they dismounted. The doors were hanging open, being blown back and forth by the freezing wind. Lukas was off his horse first and ran through, hoping to draw attack from Alm. None came, but he couldn’t banish the feeling they were being watched. Tobin came through after, nocking an arrow in his bow, with Grey, who clutched his jagged lightning blade. Alm was fourth, holding the Kingsfang over his shoulder.

 

All of the mansion’s doors were open, so the wind blew through it and left it as cold as the outside; at the same time, every torch, candle, and fireplace was lit, leaving it bright and in patches warm, even in the winter evening. The main hallway was filled with bodies - men shot full of icicles, blown into the furniture and walls with wind magic, or cut to pieces by _saggitae_ projectiles - so they crept through side rooms, for if whatever killed the Arthegnii was still there, its preferred plan was to kill them as they charged through the hall.

 

Lukas smelled fresh food made. Some roasted beef, and perhaps soup also. It made his stomach rumble, but confirmed that they weren’t alone. He pointed to his nose, then towards the main hall, where the scent came from. Tobin, Grey, and Alm nodded. They crept forward another room, so that the main hall was next. They saw a dull purple light coming from it through the two doorways. Lukas took a deep breath, ready for their fight at last. Tobin and Grey crept towards the left door, ten feet away from the right-hand door that Lukas and Alm positioned themselves at. Lukas glanced through the door. There was a figure facing away from them at the other end of the room, a woman with purple hair.

 

“Witch,” he mumbled, so the others could hear.

 

They nodded, and Alm raised a hand to count down.

 

 _Three_.

 

_Two._

 

_One._

 

Lukas burst around the corner leading with the Lance, and immediately tripped over a dead Arthegnii as he rounded a table. The witch turned towards them, staring blankly.

 

“Take her down, Tobin!” Alm shouted.

 

The witch raised a hand at Tobin and cast something, illuminating his bowstring. It went stiff, and when Tobin pulled it back it snapped immediately, springing his bowstaff straight again and throwing it out of his hand. Grey shot a lightning bolt at her, which she caught effortlessly with a barrier, then shot the power back into the sword, turning it red with heat, making Grey squawk and throw it aside before it burned him. Alm jumped in front of the two with the Kingsfang drawn, pointed at the witch, and Lukas scrambled to his feet, getting back into a guard.

 

The witch just stared, and didn’t warp, or prepare a counterattack. It was unlike anything Lukas had seen; witches always attacked relentlessly, until they or their target was killed.

 

“Alm,” she said.

 

Alm raised a fist, and everyone stopped.

 

“How do you know my name?” he asked.

 

“The Kingsfang indicates your identity. Celica also spoke of you regularly.”

 

“She.. who are you?” Alm demanded.

 

“My name is Sonya. I travelled with Celica on her journey.”

 

“Prove it.”

 

“Once she told me that when you were ten, you collaborated to move seven garter snakes into the boots of a friend, ‘Tobin’.”

 

“That was _you_?” asked Tobin.

 

“Fine,” Alm said, not responding to Tobin. “Stand down, everyone. Sonya, why are you here?”

 

“To discover a cure for the witch curse.”

 

“Were you successful?”

 

She stared at Alm. Her eyes were black pits, and her skin had a bluish tinge. She was undeniably afflicted by it, but had far more will and personality than Lukas had ever seen in a witch.

 

“It would appear unlikely,” Lukas offered.

 

“Why are _you_ here?” Sonya asked.

 

“The Arthegnii. We defeated their horde outside Relastan Village. We pursued this band after they escaped the battle. You saw to them first, it seems,” Alm replied.

 

“Yes. Men are foolish. Like them, you rode towards the clear danger, rather than away from it. Stupid. But our enemies are the same. I will leave with you tomorrow.”

 

“Slow down,” Alm said. “Why should we take you?”

 

“The Duma Faithful and Arthegnii are aligned, as always. You seek the destruction of both, while I seek that of the former, which will necessitate conflict with the latter. The cure for the witch curse does not lie here, and as such I will depart with you when you ride tomorrow. Together we may continue our fight. Was that enough, or would you prefer I use more words?”

 

_How odd, to be getting attitude from a witch._

 

Alm’s gaze was stern, but controlled, not wild and manic as he had become in the battle. He was in control, but clearly disappointed that there hadn’t been much of a fight after so much riding. “Fine. You’re with us,” he said. Alm approached her and offered a hand to shake, which she stared at for a few seconds before turning back to her table, covered in books and scrolls.

 

“Eat. I made food.”

 

Indeed, she had. A bowl of soup Lukas had knocked off the table was spreading slowly over the floor.

 

\---

 

Nuibaba’s Abode became very livable once it was paid some care.

 

It didn’t take much; the bodies were dragged outside and downwind, then burned, the windows were shut, and the soup Lukas spilled was lazily covered in rags. Sonya seemed to have a habit of making too much food, then sweeping leftovers off the dining tables and leaving them to sit, but the building was kept below freezing for the time she had lived in it, which kept the discarded food from rotting too badly. Half an hours’ work turned the desolate mountaintop dwelling into a cozy manse Lukas could picture escaping to for a few weeks in the winter.

 

After it was prepared, they had their first properly-cooked meal in weeks. Sonya was quite the chef, and had fine ingredients to work with, though after weeks of hardtack biscuits and salt beef almost anything else was a joy. With their clothes drying after a run through a mechanical washer, the men sat at the tables in their underclothes and robes from the manor, eating their fill of roasted meats, good breads, cheeses, and stew, helping themselves to the wine cellars as well. Alm was even acting more normally, friendly and joking with Tobin and Grey.

 

After eating and drinking himself to the bursting point, Lukas went to check on Sonya, who had stood nearly still at her table even as everyone else ate. He loaded a plate with food, and set it down in some empty space by her.

 

“Hello, Sonya.”

 

“Why are you here?”

 

“To bring you some food. I’d thought you may wish to eat.”

“No, that is incorrect.”

 

“Are you not hungry?” Lukas asked.

 

“You did not come for that reason.”

 

“Well,” Lukas began. “Very well, then. I wished to speak with you.”

 

“You may. Ask your questions.” Sonya looked up from her notes and stared Lukas in the eye, expressionless. She was very tall for a woman, exactly his height. She was also the prettiest woman he had ever met, but the witch curse left her a terrifying figure. Lukas couldn’t help but feel a bit uneasy as he spoke.

 

“You are a witch,” Lukas began.

 

“Very clever.”

 

“But you did not wish to be one. And were not one when we fought against Duma.”

 

“Correct. And correct. I went in search of a cure to the witch curse after the war ended. My research brought me here. I attempted to test a ritual which could end the curse. It failed, most spectacularly. Now I am as I am now.”

 

“Will you be… alright?”

 

_Readings in literature do not prepare one well for the topics of magical rituals, do they?_

 

“I am in excellent physical health, and few bodies are in as good shape as mine. My soul is destroyed, gone, or otherwise inaccessible. Conclude from that as you will.”

 

Lukas had never before met a witch that bragged about having an attractive figure.

“Do you have emotions? Do you feel?”

 

“No. I experience touch and other physical sensations. I do not value any. I eat and engage in other activities to maintain my body.”

 

“Why, then, if you feel no emotion?”

 

Sonya took a few seconds to answer that. After three or four seconds she made a stiff grab for some bread, tore a chunk off, and ate it. “Before the ritual I wished to find a cure to the witch curse to free the remaining women afflicted by it, and to see the destruction of the Duma Faithful. I have followed those goals since. I do not know why.”

 

“If I may, why do you wish to see the Faithful destroyed?”

 

“That…” Sonya began, “That I will not tell you. I would not have before. But I wished to kill Jedah with my own hands, brutally. That desire drove me. I will still work to see it carried out.”

 

_Jedah must be a special man, to engender such a strong hatred of himself in everyone he meets._

 

“But, why?” Lukas demanded, feeling his voice rise. “You feel nothing. What will killing him, or causing him pain, bring you? What will anything bring you if you feel so little?”

 

Sonya stepped back from him a bit, and turned back to her books. “That is enough. I will not, can not, answer more, Lukas.” Her voice was softer. Hurt, almost, if that were even possible.

 

Lukas clenched his fist, frustrated with himself for growing so forceful. He almost never grew frustrated or angry, and yet the few times he did he always managed to cause such problems. She had enough to deal with without him making demands of her.

 

“I am sorry, Sonya. That was wrong of me. Is there any way I may help you?”

 

“Bring more olives and cheese.”

 

\---

 

They departed for the capital the next day, well-rested, warm, and bathed after a luxurious night in the mansion’s many bedrooms, rather than clinging to one another on the floor of a farmhouse. Sonya had claimed two horses from the Arthegnii, and rode along with their party. As soon as they departed she brought herself uninvited to the front, placing herself next to Lukas. It was a surprise to him, and meant he couldn’t look backwards without Grey and Tobin raising eyebrows and making kissing faces. Sonya kept her gaze straight forward down the road, stiff and unflinching.

 

Eventually the two started making kissing noises, getting on Lukas’ nerves before long. He was about to turn around when Sonya snapped around in one swift motion, staring Tobin dead in the eye for five minutes, then Grey. The two went silent in a second, and desperately avoided eye contact with the witch. Lukas suppressed a chuckle, because he didn’t fancy a staredown much either.

 

They gradually passed from the east, with its mountains and forests, into the central Rigelian plains. They were highly productive, once, and were the empire’s breadbasket in a better age. Farmers still worked much of the land, but they were far poorer than their cousins in Zofia, even after the droughts, and entire patches of land had grown fully infertile. Along the highway they passed the way stations of the imperial post system, where they received news of the army’s progress. Relastan Village’s walls were repaired of what damage the Arthegnii had dealt them in the siege, and General Ezekiel was leading the army back to the capital for their demobilization ceremonies, to welcome the men back from the war, and to march in triumph through the streets. They were a week away, so Alm decided they would await the army at a small lodge the imperial family owned, a few hours outside the city. Alm had another location in mind before they returned to the capital.

 

The imperial cemetery was located in one of the patches of blighted land too dead to grow anything in, with nothing but cracked earth and shriveled, twisted black trees that had been sucked dry of all moisture. Gated despite its massive size; it was located up on a plateau, leaving only two entrances, making its guard mostly ceremonial. In it were buried the dead of the imperial family, dating back all the way to Rigel I. They dismounted at the eastern gate, and Alm took a wooden box off one of the pack animals.

 

Tobin and Grey edged their way towards Alm. “Can we come?” Tobin asked.

 

“I’m just going with Lukas,” Alm said. “I need some time alone. You can come see after.”

 

That crushed both of them. Tobin acted like the denial was nothing out of the ordinary, but Grey walked back to the horses and slumped back against a dead tree, staring blankly at the dark midday sky.  

 

Lukas couldn’t help but think over that Alm regarded his company as having no bearing on whether he was alone. He did not count. He couldn’t help think of a skillful toy he saw in the Rigelian capital during the war, a red wooden knight that swung a sword when a gear on his back was turned.

 

_If the toy could speak, it may as well replace me. If it killed who they needed, and said the things I say when I try to understand, it would provide all the functions I do. It would be better, even, lacking an appetite for food, or an inexplicable temper that may flare up and cause problems._

 

_So, then, that’s all there is to me. I pretend to understand, and I fight._

 

Before long, Alm had led them to their destination, which Lukas could already tell from the second they arrived at the cemetery. The grave of Emperor Albein Alm Rudolf I was as austere as the man himself, lacking in any ornamentation. His profile was carved onto the stone, with his name, and the motto “RIGEL, UNCONQUERED” The gravestone was the same size and material as the hundreds of graves behind it, those of all the men who died fighting in Rudolf’s wars against the Arthegnii, or at least those whose bodies could be returned to the capital. Rudolf’s, with a few others, was at the head of the cluster; previous emperors of Rigel were all longer-lived, and had twice or three times as many soldiers killed fighting for them. At the present rate, the cemetery would have ample room for another two hundred years.

 

Alm approached his father’s grave. He was silent, his handy shaky around the box. He steadied himself, and removed the lid, then upended it over the grave. Dozens of small metal objects - rings, brooch clasps, earrings, and all other sorts of jewelry taken from dead or captured Arthegnii chieftains - poured out, spilling all over the ground beneath Rudolf’s tombstone. Alm gave a Rigelian salute, and Lukas copied it, before they moved to the next grave.

 

The other grave was that of Princess Celica.

 

Alm reached it, but sunk down to sit before it after a few seconds. “I… uh…” he mumbled, searching for words. “I should have brought flowers, right, Lukas?”

 

Lukas didn’t know what to say, so he stayed silent.

 

“She always liked flowers…” Alm said.

 

“I wish we could have talked more,” Alm said. “We would’ve… sorted it out, I would have made her listen. I should never have let her go. It would’ve been so easy. I just had to grab her and I would finally have had her again. I could’ve kept her safe, if I hadn’t been so weak.”

 

“You cannot know that,” Lukas said. “It would have changed everything. We do not know how events would have played out. And she would have hated you for it.”

 

“I would rather Celica live to hate me than this. She wouldn’t have went to Mila’s Temple, wouldn’t have met Jedah, wouldn’t have made me kill her. The prophecy held that the brand-bearers would bring about the end of the age of the gods. When I slayed Duma I did exactly that. Her entire pilgrimage was a fool’s errand that ended with me hacking her to pieces. Now look how the world is! I kill one problem and another fills its place, and I can’t trust anyone but you.”

 

Then after a second, he said, “I know exactly what you three are doing.”

 

Lukas’ stomach twisted.

 

“Alm, you must try to control yourself,” Lukas said. “Celica would never have approved of the course you are taking. You must change it before you lead us into disaster.”

 

“There’s no point.”

 

Alm removed his left glove, revealing the brand, glowing in a deep red, dark like drying blood. Lukas grabbed Alm’s hand, and it was hot to the touch, almost burning.

 

“What is this?” Lukas shouted.

 

Alm looked him in the eye, calm as he could be. “Duma is taking my mind. I don’t know if it’s His influence, or soul itself, but I feel the grip tightening with every day. All I think about is death and slaughter, and all I can do to resist is to direct it at whoever deserves it most. The song and dance you do with Clive and Zeke won’t stop it.”

 

“You can fight it, Alm. You must.”

 

“Lukas…” Alm said, looking down. “It doesn’t even matter. This is who I always was, deep down. Peel away my nice words, everything about liberation and justice, and what’s left is that I wanted a war to fight from the beginning. To kill and conquer. That is all you need to know about Albein Alm Rudolf. It’s all you need to know about humanity.”

 

“That isn’t true, Alm, and I know you don’t believe it. You defeated Duma once, with us by your side. You will do it again. I believe in you, with all my being. You are stronger than Him,” Lukas said, throwing empty assurances out at random.

 

“You… won’t leave me?”

 

_It’s working?_

 

“Never. I am your knight, your friend. For the rest of my life,” Lukas said, more honestly.

 

Alm shut his eyes and grimaced. The brand’s glow darkened, then faded out, slowly turning into just a mark on his hand.

 

“How…?” Alm asked. “So easy…”

 

It surprised Lukas just as much, but he forced himself to smile, as though he knew it all along. “Things will be alright, Alm. It will never be easy, of course. But with us by your side I know you will triumph,” Lukas said, back to the lies.

 

Alm smiled, faintly, wiping at small tears forming in his eyes.

 

Lukas sat down by Alm. “When I die, I wish to be buried here. I promise to live my life at your side, as your knight and your friend. Such a resting place would reasonably follow.”

 

Alm nodded. “Of course, Lukas. But not for some time,” he chuckled.

 

Lukas felt wrong telling Alm to move on, to live and struggle despite the pains, as though it was so simple. Lukas knew it wasn’t. The emptiness of his words bothered him, more than the manipulation at Relastan. Lukas had no clue why he kept living; what right did he have to meddle and prod at Alm’s emotions to keep him going, with words he doubted himself? It would improve things, perhaps. Having a living emperor would keep a civil war at bay, and a functional one would keep the empire running, and those were desirable ends which would do the people of Rigel a great service. So Lukas could keep lying, confident in the justness of his cause...

 

Lukas was not confident. He felt no less empty.

 

They sat together for a few minutes, looking over Celica’s empty grave. The whiteness of the gravestones stood out, even in the murky day. The landscape had an odd beauty to it, even amidst the devastation. The capital was dead ahead, beyond miles of plains. To its east  were forests, while to the west were fields as far as Lukas could see. To maintain a city took immense manpower, most critically a constant flow of food just to keep the population alive. Somehow, even through the wars and corruption of the gods and land, the capital had endured. That was something, Lukas had to admit. Perhaps the human will wouldn’t break so easy.

 

Alm had sat clutching his knees, but straightened up and turned. His eyes were red and puffy, but he managed a faint smile. “Let’s head back. We can bring Gray and Tobin up here, give them some time.”

 

Lukas nodded, when the city caught his attention.

 

Something, like a dark cloud, began growing in the city, spreading and rising, choking out the whole thing with darkness. Lukas watched it, at first confused, then disturbed, then alarmed. It kept spreading and gaining height, rising up high over the city, billowing out so that it was unmistakable. Alm saw his alarm and whipped around, staring wide-eyed at the city.

 

Two seconds later, the blast hit them.

 

 _KRA-KOMM_ , it sounded, almost deafening even miles away, and just as the sound left his ears Lukas was struck by a wall of wind, roaring louder than a dragon as it passed over them. The city was fully engulfed in black smoke and dust, both Alm and Lukas jumping to their feet in an instant to get a look.

 

“No…” Alm muttered. The smoke cloud spread and spread.

 

“No...no...no, no, no, no!” Alm screamed

 

Lukas grabbed Alm’s branded hand, feeling the heat returning, the dark red light spreading. “Careful, be calm. You have to think--”

 

 _“Jedah,”_ Alm hissed, shoving Lukas off with inhuman strength, bolting to the horses.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes:
> 
>  
> 
> 1\. Good grief. Ch4 was always intended to be a big chapter but this one also spiraled out of control pretty fast. I was going to split it in two for a while, but ended up just going for the full thing.
> 
> 2\. Clive is the ocean’s grey waves
> 
> 3\. Alm has built up quite a bit of hostility towards Clive by this point in the story. It’s not something that canon Alm ever possessed, but with the different path things have taken I think it more or less makes sense.
> 
> 4\. Apologies to those who are big fans of Ezekiel. I’ve never played Marth’s games, so my knowledge of his character is limited to SoV and the general stuff everyone knows about the Camus archetype. I think he’s coming across as a bit of a jackass at this point, or at least extremely cynical, which is more due to my need for a character to fill the role than me thinking that’s necessarily a 100% pure take of who Zeke is. I think it’s at least a reasonable fit, but if you’re a big fan of the character you probably know him better than me.
> 
> 5\. I don’t know why this chapter turned out so gay, but it did, and y'know what, that's fine.
> 
> 6\. REVISIONS: I don't know how this stuff got through (that's a lie, it got through because I'm sloppy and barely edit), but Reader1235 pointed out I've been mispelling "Jedah" as "Jedha" this entire time, which has now been corrected because it would be mean for me to misspell Jed!'s name. Please clap. As well, I removed a line from the start of chapter 6, which was just totally not meant to be there after I shortened the chapter.


End file.
